


Second Chances

by orphan_account



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Baby Fic, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 82,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is a bad business. It is an often filthy, dehumanizing, mean-spirited life. I assure you I take no pleasure in it. It just comes easily to me. But you are not that way. So I suggest you think long and hard about whether you really want to wake up every morning with all the promise that morning conveys and come with me." She has to make a choice to stay or go. Future/baby fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's already at her house by the time she gets home from the Post Office. Its not especially late-just after six-when she finally walks in. She feels almost like a regular nine to five worker instead of a federal agent who usually works 16 hour days. Though, just because she's home just after six doesn't mean the day hasn't been tiring. Its been a long day with capturing yet another blacklister and watching Meera behind the one way mirror as she interrogates the man for more information. In the raid they caught him with plans but he had easily set fire to them as they splintered the door. The FBI really did need some quiet tactics for breeching houses these days.

She's noticed Red's been lingering less and less at the Post Office as the more dangerous criminals get apprehended. Of course he was there in the beginning, staging the briefings and hinting not so subtly of how they should approach a take down of the blacklister. They were getting closer and closer to the end of the list Red had in his mind. They had only breeched one of the top ten-Anslo Garrick was number nine-but that didn't seen to matter to anyone save Red himself. After all, he never really gave away what number each blacklister was. No, that was saved for himself. He stashed his list in one of Frederick's manuscripts. She didn't mean to stumble upon it but she did and he had carefully written each of the names and numbers of each blacklister. The paper was well worn and muted white which suggested he really had been cultivating this list for over twenty years. She couldn't help but notice some of the names on the list were the ones that got away from her when she was in mobile psych. He really had been paying attention to her career. He never really stayed for the post-capture de-briefings but he did sometimes wait around and see if she was free for dinner or to drive her home if she had taken public transport that day. Countless criminals of all varieties have been captured or killed at the hands of her and her team as well as Red and Dembe.

As she hangs her coat on the rack by the door, she notices the familiar fedora hanging on a peg. She frowns at it and turns into the living room to find Red lounging on her couch. She leans against the entryway as he looks up from petting Hudson who had his nose on one of Red's knees.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. "Where's Dembe?"

"Checking in," he says flippantly. As if she should have expected him here tonight. "He's finding a parking spot. You picked a terrible street to live on, Lizzie. Absolutely no parking anywhere."

"You call every night," she tells him as she walks into the room. "It's Washington, D.C. What do you expect."

He laughs hollowly and smooths his tie and vest as he shifts. Hudson whines and Red tells him to hush with a pat on his furry head. She thinks her dog loves her two companions more than he does her.

Instead of sitting across from him at the single chair, she joins him on the couch. She folds herself into the corner and props her elbow against the back of the couch and her head is in her hand as she looks over at him. She sees the small smile that appears on his lips as she does so. Little things always seem to get that reaction as of late. She finds it much too interesting to really profile it. Wants it to stay a mystery as to why. Though she thinks she might know the real reason.

"Why the change?" She asks.

He works his jaw. The arm that's stretched out over the back of the couch taps the thumb in a beat and he opens his mouth only to close it once again and smile at her instead.

"How about dinner?" he asks. He's avoiding the question all together. A none too subtle evasion. I know this quaint little place downtown. I think you'll absolutely love it.

"And then you'll tell me the real reason you're here?" she asks.

"We'll make a Bedouin trader out of you yet, Lizzie," he smirks. "You'll need a dress."

She huffs and frowns but heads up the stairs to change anyway. She thinks that maybe he should just set a day he wanted to dine with her and stick to it so she wouldn't have to change twice in one day. But god forbid Raymond Reddington ever became predictable. Predicability was not his nature. Sometimes he'd ask to dine with her three days in a week and sometimes he'd go a whole month without a question to her. He certainly had his quirks, she thought as she stood at her closet.

* * *

He was never anything short of a gentleman on these nights they wined and dined. Not that he wasn't a gentleman on other days. It was simply that she was reminded Red adores chivalry and he always helps her into her coat, opens the doors, and lets her proceed him inside places. He always pulled out her chair as well. She couldn't even remember the last person who had ever done that with her. Tonight he drove her car, the Polar Silver Sports Package CLA. The car she had received one day out of the blue. She had asked him why and he shrugged as he handed her the key. When she looked inside, she watched him smirk as she looked around at the red cut interior-the seat belts and top-stitching of the seats and door trim was the same red color. She also noticed the red-painted brake calipers. He brought it to her just before Anslo Garrick, she remembers. Tom wondered where she got it but she never said. She had told him she received some money from Sam. Which technically was true, but Red had taken care of that in a private account, away from Tom's reach. When Red gave her the car he had only one stipulation: Tom was not to drive it. That was never an issue, fortunately. Although jealous of her, he was glad to have his Jeep to himself.

Before tonight Dembe had always been the driver. But tonight Dembe was keeping Hudson company. When she had come down from changing her clothes, he was speaking with Red and had a bag of takeout containers in his hand. When he drove, he sometimes joined them as a table for three rather than a table for two. Tonight it was definitely not a question that it was a table for two type dinner.

She'd heard of The Capital Grille as he pulled up to the valet and she looked up at the name of the restaurant on the sign. She'd seen it in the restaurant reviews of in-town steak houses and she hears this is the place to go if you want policy to be heard. Of course she's never been. It's had been far too fancy of a place when she was with Tom and she doesn't think this place was a table for one type restaurant. It's no surprise Red chooses this place. Nor is it a surprise he is known here; it's his kind of place, after all.

He gets out and receives a ticket for the car. The valet on her side opens her door but she finds Red's hand to help her out. She takes it and wraps her arm in the crook of his elbow as they walk into the restaurant. His fedora and coat and her own coat are hung in a coat closet and he gets yet another ticket. The table is set in a private, quiet alcove of the dining room. He pulls out her chair, as usual, and unbuttons his suit jacket before he sits in his own chair across from her.  
A few minutes into perusing the menu a sommelier appears out of thin air. She looks up to find Red watching her.

"Allow me?" he asks.

She nods in agreement. She's only ever been the supermarket kind of wine person. And even then it's whatever Chardonnay that's on sale. Red orders and he looks at her as he hands the wine list back.

"They don't have the variety I had hoped. I hear this one is all right for this small selection," he tells her.

She shrugs her shoulders and watches as Red reads the menu as he waits for the wine.

The sommelier comes back with the bottle, '07 Hess Collection 19 Block Cuvée, she overhears. She watches Red as he watches the man uncork the bottle with precision. As the man pours a small amount into a wide bulb glass, Red picks it up by the stem and brings the brim to his nose. She notices his brows pinch and then rise as he tips the glass and swirled the burgundy colored liquid around in the glass. He takes a sip and his lips set and brows rise she thinks in half surprise, and he sets the glass down where it began.

"This will do," he nods.

The man nods in return and pours a standard glass for both Red and Liz.

"It's a bit of a mix-Bordeaux-Syrah blend; only gets better as it finishes," he tells her. "Go on."

She's sure everyone would think she is ridiculous as she sniffs and tastes it just as Red did moments ago. She's only thankful he sent the sommelier away before he asked her to taste. She smells blackberries, she thinks. There's a peppery smell to it; like after freshly ground peppercorns were being ground in front of her and into the wine. She even gets hint of tobacco. Not overpowering like you get walking through a den of smokers outside buildings. Rather, it smelt like Red did after he had a long, rougher-than-usual day and would sit in the quiet of her home. It didn't happen too often-she's noticed it happened if she was hurt or taken from him and he had to go and find her with Ressler and Dembe-but it was always the same whenever he did. He'd be at the backdoor rather than the front, smoking a cigar on the wooden steps with Dembe until she came home. He'd stamp it out and Dembe would disappear whenever she opened the sliding glass door. And then he'd walk in, leaving an unmistakable scent trail of chilly DC nights, earthiness from sitting in the garden, and tobacco from his cigar. She let the wine sit on her tongue-not long because she was afraid the dark liquid would stain her teeth or tongue or both-but enough to try and get some kind of flavor profile. It tasted nothing like it smelled. Rather than blackberries and hints of peppery tobacco, she tasted cherries with a slate kind of aftertaste.

"I know red is not your favorite but you must branch out of your comfort zone some of the time, Lizzie," Red chuckles to himself.

"I'm not that afraid of new things," she quips.

She looks up after putting the glass back above her plates and finds him completely immersed in the menu. A tactic if she had ever seen one.

Despite the notion she had in her mind that she would never let a man order for her, Red asked her permission before doing so and she gave him her concent. It wasn't so strange anymore that he anticipated her needs and what her favorite things are. The first round he ordered a half pomegranate and goat cheese salad-it wasn't on the menu that she saw but their waiter had no objection; the appetizers he ordered were mini lobster and crab cakes that boasted they had beautiful pieces of meat with little filling; and for the main dish he ordered steak au poivre with courvoisier cream-medium rare for both, light on the peppercorn crust. He also ordered two shared side dishes: mashed potatoes-she didn't miss the little change in his tone as he recited the name of the potatoes: Sam's mashed potatoes, and the French green beans with shallots and heirloom tomatoes.

"Why'd we come here?" she asked as she cut into her steak.

The meat was beautifully cooked, the peppercorn crust wasn't overpowering. And she thinks maybe Red's order of less crust in the first place saved her from having too much pepper and not enough meat taste.

"I've always wanted to come here for dinner," he says as he forks his own cut of steak and circles the sauce.

"You've never been here?" she asked skeptically.

"Once," he said. "I brought Luli here for her birthday, for lunch. She wanted to try the lobster mac and cheese."

She looked down and smeared her mashed potatoes with her fork. She had accidentally stumbled upon a seemingly sore subject.

"It's not a difficult subject for me to talk about, Luli and I," he tells her quietly. She looks up as he continues. "Luli will always be a part of my life but I do enjoy talking about her; telling stories about her. She did enjoy you a great deal. She said she had never met another woman besides herself that could surprise me as much as you do."

Liz smiles in the corner of her mouth and a brief, quiet laugh escapes.

"I liked her, too," Liz says. "I just wish I had gotten to know her like I know Dembe."

Red nods and turns to conversation to something more lighthearted. He chuckles as he retells the story of Ressler's day with himself and Dembe while she was out with Meera chasing down leads. Apparently Ressler didn't like not having the ability to drive when Red is his "partner" for the day.

After dinner and another glass of wine, she ordered the creme brûlée for dessert while he went for a tumbler of 16-year-old Lagavulin. She was used to his staring by now but she wondered when she had gotten comfortable with him watching her as she sat across from him in this kind of setting. Typically for dessert when they went out and with Dembe, he often got another drink while she and Dembe ordered from the dessert menu. She had learned Dembe had quite the sweet tooth and he was quite powerless to any and all forms of caramel. During her musings, Red's spoon snuck it's way over to her dessert-as it usually did-and he cracks the burned sugar before coming up with the creamy vanilla custard.

She half protested but smiled with her own spoonful as he commented on her choice.

"It looks like chocolate at the bottom," she points out. She tips her dessert towards him to let him see the hard chocolate was indeed lined in the bottom, underneath the vanilla custard.

"Dark or milk?" He asked.

She scooped a small spoonful and made sure to scrape the chocolate layer to look.

"Dark," she says as she shows him the spoon's layers. As she takes her spoonful, she none too subtly pushes her creme brûlée to the midpoint between them. She nods with her head and watches as he takes his own spoonful. If there's one thing she really knows about Raymond Reddington it's that he adores a good chocolate, especially if it's dark. And this base layer of the creme brûlée is one of the best she's had in a while. Of course, nothing beats the one time Red had detoured in Switzerland and brought her back a dark chocolate caramel sea salt bar from a little shop next to one of his banks. That chocolate bar had unfortunately not lasted long and he didn't often go enough to Switzerland to get another one.

They shared the dessert until it was finished. She held the smirk in as Red scooped up the last remaining chocolate in the crevices of the ramekin after she placed her spoon on the serving plate and napkin on the table. Between bites, the bill had come but she hadn't seen it for long. He never looked at the bill, she realized. He set his card down as soon as the bill was placed next to him and it was taken moments later. She also noticed he never tipped on his card. Rather, he pulled out crisp bills and laid them inside with the signed receipt. He definitely had interesting qualities about him. When they left their table and returned to the coat check, her arm wrapped around his own after their coats were returned and she huddled closer as they waited for her car outside the restaurant.

"Thank you," she whispered as she leaned into him.

"It's not often I get to dine with a beautiful woman," he replies.

They both know its a lie. She dines with him often and he doesn't make much of a fuss about it. But he seems to be placing a lot of weight on whatever this is so she doesn't say anything else.

* * *

Dembe was waiting for them with Hudson laying down at his feet. The dog perked up at the sound of the door opening and both man and dog walked to the door to find Red and Liz walking in the door.

"If we are going to the meeting," Dembe trailed off.

"Bring the car around. It won't take long," Red nodded.

Dembe pat Hudson's head before leaving out the door they just came through.

"What meeting?" She asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

Red bit his lip and looked down at his shoes.

"We're getting closer to the end, Lizzie," he starts. "The deal I made with the government for the blacklist, the immunity deal, it is a sham."

"What?" She asked. Her brows furrowed in confusion.

"My informant in the Justice Department tells me as soon as we finish the blacklist, I will be finished. I will go into the hole they tried to place me in before and I won't be seeing the light of day again."

"Who told you this?" She asked. It seemed like it was some fictional plot line of a television show, being locked away forever. But she believed it with Red. After all, she had to travel by helicopter to an oil freighter in the middle of the ocean to talk to him before he was released with his immunity deal. Sometimes she had to remind herself she was dealing with one of the FBI's most wanted criminal and not someone who has been one of her closest confidants.

"Fitch Crowley," he told her. "He works for the number one on the blacklist as well as the Justice Department."

"Where will you go?" She asked.

"I can't tell you," he shook his head.

"Your chip...they'll find you," she trailed off as he gave her a look. "You took it out already, didn't you?"

"I didn't want them to know I visited you before I left. If they did know, you'd be put in a hole in the ground and interrogated every day until you give something up."

"You can't just leave," she tries.

"I can disappear without a trace in sixty seconds," he tells her. "I can't be captured, Elizabeth. Not until I get number one. And number one is impossible to take down without getting myself killed. And I, for one, am not ready to die just yet."

His hand cupped her face as she tried to look away. His eyes bore into hers and she but her lip. His hands skimmed down her neck, tracing her collarbone, playing with her hair and tracing his fingers over her collarbone yet again as he spoke.

"If you come with me, you will most likely be put on the most wanted list next to my own name. Your reputation will no longer be yours but mine. I do not wish to tarnish your name but if you choose to stay here, I will not and cannot contact you for some time. They must believe us to be completely disappeared from each other's lives."

Her breathing hitches. She's never been one for a contingency plan. Of course in the back of her mind she knew the closer he got to the end of the list, he'd be borrowing time. She had told him they would never give him immunity the day he told her about the freelancer. But she never expected this. She never expected to feel anything other than contempt for the man who turned her life upside down at the utterance of speaking only with Elizabeth Keen.

"I'm not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of having you at my side, Lizzie," he tells her. "I only want you to know that I wouldn't object to your decision if you did come."

His hand skips from her collar and down her coat, skimming the material at her hips and she looks up at him rather than the space between them. His thumb sneaks in between her coat and begins a rhythm as it plays back and forth, waiting for her answer.

They've been doing whatever this was for a while. Dates but not really because it was just dinner with the three of them. But sometimes dinner with just the two of them. She often dressed up-because he and Dembe were always sharply dressed daily-and he always paid. He called her daily even if they weren't currently pursuing a blacklister. She curled up on the couches of his houses and watched the sun disappear and sometimes she felt the sun rise on her face. Mostly Frederick's house but sometimes at one of his safe houses or the hotels she knew weren't bugged by the FBI. And he lounged on hers with a book in one hand and the other on Hudson's head.

"I can't," she whispers as she holds his gaze.

She's dreamt about this more often than not-what she would do as the blacklist dwindled. Logically she knew this would be a scenario-him running. But she never really thought it to be a real possibility. He doesn't outright ask her because he doesn't want to face the disappointment he knows would come with the question. She once told him she had a life but as she stands with the man who said he has her, she realizes she's only really ever had him, too. Sam's dead and Tom's long gone. Her closest friends are fellow agents who she doesn't really ever see unless they need her to get Red to do something outside his agreement. Although, Ressler is more willing to be her friend than any of them. He often suggests they pair up and he's been more of a friend to her than she has to him. But she appreciates the friendship he's given to her nonetheless. The only ones that have really, truly been there for each step of the way are Red and Dembe. But she can't leave. Not yet. She can't give up what she's built here.

She doesn't want to look up because she knows what she will see in his eyes. She doesn't want to see the disappointment after so many times of him being proud of her. He tilts her chin up anyway and her tongue snakes out, wets her lips, and she bites her lower one.

"If you need me, I will be there, eventually," he tells her. "Dembe has an email with the last of the names and locations of everyone left on the blacklist. It will be sent to Cooper when we are safely in the air, away from any US jurisdiction."

She nods. She doesn't comment on the wavering tone she hears in his voice. And she thinks maybe its harder on both of them to do it in person rather than on the phone. She doesn't miss the sad smile, the working of his jaw, the twitch in one cheek as his eyes mist.

"Goodbye, Lizzie," he nods once.

His lips touch the corner of hers and she thinks that maybe this is the hardest thing she's ever done. She forces her eyes to stay open, memorize the feel of his lips against hers, his fingers against her soft skin as he barely touches her jaw. The lump in her throat keeps her from saying anything as she feels him stepping away.

When she hears the door close she moves to the stairs and collapses onto the stairs with a shattering sob she can't help but try and mask with her hand.

She's not sure how long it's been but knows it's been too long since her butt is quite numb from sitting on the stairs. She's sure she has an indent from the banisters on her forehead. Hudson comes and places his head on her knees and she chokes out a laugh as he whines. She's not sure who the dog will miss more-Red or Dembe.

"Oh buddy," she sighs. "I think I might have made a mistake."

As she scratches his neck, a slip of paper in his collar catches her attention. She frowns and unrolls it as soon as it's in her hands.

She sees two words and a time written on a slip of paper. It's not his writing but it is familiar. She can't help but laugh because if she doesn't laugh she will start crying again and she doesn't really want to do that. She stands and goes to find a matchbook in the kitchen, Hudson tagging along begging her. Standing at the sink and lighting the piece of paper on fire, she wonders if she's making the right decision.

* * *

When Dembe pulled the car around and opened the door for his employer he took a little longer than necessary to pull away from the curb.

"She's not coming?" Dembe asked as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

Red turned from staring out the window to meet Dembe's eyes.

"Doesn't look like it," he says slowly.

He wasn't sure what he was really expecting when he asked or didn't ask. He kind of just let the situation circle around them and left after she said she couldn't come with him. He didn't want to try and persuade her. He didn't want to be responsible for potentially ruining her career. He'd write a letter, make sure Cooper knew she tried to get him to stay or something to that effect. He'd think on it.

"Your contact has all your passports and documents ready now," Dembe says as he drops the subject of Elizabeth Keen quickly.

"We'll meet him and then head to the airfield. I'd like to leave on schedule," Red tells him.

"Of course," Dembe nods.

Red stares at the darkened city only illuminated by the street lamps as Dembe maneuvers the S-Class through the suburbs of DC.

When Red meets his contact he is his usual flippant self. Dembe notices the mask he wears and he pays handsomely for the documents and passports. They're clean, the best Red's money and reputation can ever buy. Dembe chuckled because he thinks he may see Canada's passport book cover as Red slips it out to view the picture.

He refrains from speaking with Dembe the rest of the way to the airport. Instead he pulls out the passports and flips it open to the second page where the identification photo stares back at him. He's used one of her older training photos since he had the man backdate the passports a bit so as not to cause alarm. He'll forge some entry and exit stamps on his own when he's on the plane. He thinks he'll keep hers. Maybe she'd need it eventually. After all, it's a long way to the Yunnan province for some silent meditation. He's sure it's a bad idea but that's the only way he can force himself not to make contact with Lizzie. He'd be tempted elsewhere with a pay phone on every corner and Dembe's sat phone with him at all times. No, to release Elizabeth Keen from all ties with him means no people trailing her, no contact; nothing but his own thoughts to last him a lifetime. Because he's sure she can very well take care of herself. But maybe when the meditation is done, he'll do some surveillance from afar.

* * *

She thinks she's made it-the right decision-as he steps out of the Mercedes with a surprised look on his face as she stands at the stairs of his jet with nothing but a bag of her most precious things-that wouldn't be noticed if she was declared missing or a fugitive or something-and a mangy mutt tugging at his lead. On the way here she psyched herself out thinking that maybe it wasn't really an offer since he didn't outright ask her. But as soon as he stepped out of the car, with a smile trying to be masked in his surprise, she knew the offer was legitimate and she had made the right choice after all.

Dembe steps up first, takes her bag and Hudson from her as he and Red step away from the Mercedes and to the jet behind her. She hears more than sees the man and her dog climb the stairs.

He grasps her shoulder as if he doesn't believe her to be real and standing in front of him. Or maybe he's just strangely observing the third wardrobe change of the night for her. At least she has the same coat on-the burgundy one he's grown quite fond of these days.

"Why'd you come?" he asks. He's serious, she realizes. And she thinks that maybe since he's lived almost his entire life on the run he's had no one do anything for him that wasn't for wholly unselfish reasons.

"I wanted something," she says.

He nods and she smirks.

"Answers to questions, no doubt," he retorts.

She chuckles, shakes her head.

"You," she says simply. "I want you."

He looks like a kid again. Astonishment is written all over his face as she steps closer.

"I want answers, too. But I realized something after you left," she tells him. "I want a life. One with a family and friends that I can depend on and they can trust me to keep their back, too."

He pauses, looks at her and looks up to see Dembe and Hudson in the entrance of the plane, waiting.

"Lizzie, I must tell you something before you completely give up everything you know."

She nodded.

"This is a bad business. It is an often filthy, dehumanizing, mean-spirited life. I assure you I take no pleasure in it. It just comes easily to me. But…you… are not that way. So, I suggest you think long and hard about whether you really want to wake up every morning with all the promise that morning conveys and come with me. Which I say to you only because I care."

"You think I haven't dealt with your world before?" she asks. "Should I make a list for you: my father-birth and Sam, my ex-husband, not to mention everyone we've captured or killed on the blacklist that has kidnapped or tried to kill any of us. I may not be totally familiar with going on the run but I'm not naïve, Red. I know what's out there. And I know you'll do everything you can to keep that from me but I can handle it. I trust you."

It's his turn to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief.

"Well then," he says as he turns them both to face the stairs. "It's time to stand at the helm of your own destiny, Lizzie. Pick somewhere, anywhere."

"I just have one question though," she says as she turns her head to look at him.

"Fine," he nods.

"What's going to happen to my car?" She asks. She looks over at the two Mercedes parked next to one each other in the shadows of the hanger.

"I suppose I'll just add it to my shipment," Red tells her. "It will of course go to the house and will be taken care of until we can safely reach it without having any attention drawn to us."

"House?" She asks.

He hums a yes and she's quite curious to learn more. But she can see he's really waiting for a destination.

"I've never been to Paris," she tells him.

He smiles and takes her hand. He leads her up the stairs of the plane and tells the pilot they're final destination is to Paris.

As she walks towards the back of the plane where the better seats are, she notices Dembe's small smile he can't wipe off his face, nor can Red clear the one from his.

They're halfway between the entrance and tail of the plane when Red finally realizes he hasn't quite shared his feelings about her surprising decision.

"Oh, and Lizzie," red trails off.

She turns and is about to answer when his lips are fully on hers, hands running through her hair and cradling her head gently. It takes her a moment and she grabs his fedora off his head before it knocks against her forehead again. He tilts his head one way and she goes the other as her free hand curls into his collar and up around his neck. The fedora carrying hand reaches around and her arm rests on his shoulder as she crossed her arms behind his neck and pulls herself a step closer. The passion he displays is not muted; not hidden from her because he no longer fears that she won't return his feelings. She's come here on her own violation, willingly given up her life because she wanted him, willingly initiated this kiss. He trails off, one long kiss turns into shorter ones which turn into a simple, chaste peck of their lips. He pulls back thoroughly satisfied with himself as she unconsciously licks her bottom lip and bites the lip he was tempted to thoroughly kiss and nip at in the future. He sweeps her into his arms and she giggles against his skin. Her little breaths against his skin remind him this is real. He pulls her back again so he can see her face, mapping it as he takes her in. It's long, drawn out, and she thinks that maybe he thinks he should memorize her face, lest she have second thoughts about this now. And then he kisses her again, sweet, gentle, even loving. She felt the genuine smile and feelings as he pulled her close.

"Raymond," Dembe calls out from the front of the plane.

Red turns and his eyes open slowly, his brow raises in question, as if he's surprised to find the other man here, and tilts his head in question.

"Roderick says we're taxiing," he tells him.

"Oh," Red nods. "Right."

He pulls away from her and moves to the side of the plane where two seats sit side by side. He lets her choose her seat and then sits beside her. It's only after she tossed his fedora on the table next to her and has her seatbelt fully fashioned when she turns to him. This time it is her who takes the lead; her fingers tracing his jawline before angling her head as she moved closer. He holds her closer, glad she hadn't pulled down the arm rests that divide the seats, and Liz sighs as his tongue coaxes hers to join his, finds herself swept away. Liz enjoys the touch, but she thinks she might get to him and his subconscious better if she alleviates some of his worries. She pulls away and looks at his green eyes, overflowing with untamed feelings-feelings only for her. She can also see the question slowly rising to the surface.

"You don't scare me anymore, Raymond Reddington," she says quietly.

His twitch of a smile suggests to her that he likes it when she uses his full name or maybe he's finally glad she trusts him with her life. Perhaps both.

"Life as you know it is about to change, Lizzie."

She's glad. Maybe for once she'll be able to see everything, do everything she wishes to accomplish. She only smiles at him, genuinely, and caresses his jawline before turning to face the window. She doesn't miss him grabbing her hand and rubbing gently at her scar. As she turns and looks him in the eyes she hopes to convey everything she doesn't say aloud: there will be time for that; there will be time for everything.


	2. Chapter 2

I thank you all for giving this a read and appreciate all the feedback. This won't be a weekly updated thing. It was rather a fluke I even got this done in a week. There's a part two to this chapter that should be out soon enough. (it was just too long to cram into one chapter. unless you guys like reading 13,000 words at once. lol)

Once again, stole something from Boston Legal. I think you'll find that to be the common theme each chapter since this fic kind of spawned from my Boston Legal re-watch.

* * *

Harold Cooper was in deep shit. He had lost his intelligence asset and the one agent that could be used in finding him. When Special Agent Elizabeth Keen had vanished without so much as a trace, he hadn't known what to think. But then an e-mail had come through-untraceable, of course-with all the information needed to finish off Reddington's blacklist. And then he put two and two together. Reddington was escaping before the immunity deal he had received in the beginning of their quest was null and void, Diane Fowler made sure to point out that much. String him along and don't let him escape, were her words as he was pulled into her office after he brought back the signed paperwork.

He sighed as he thought about the paperwork, the meetings, the Senate hearings he'd have to go through now. And his entire command would be under the microscope. If there was one dirty agent, would there be another? He had to act quickly but quietly. He wasn't completely sure what he was going to do but he did need proof before he acted on anything. If anything, Raymond Reddington's witch hunt had taught him that much.

"What do we have?" Harold Cooper's voice echoed in the quiet of the Post Office.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Meera Malik responds as she clicks a mouse at her computer station and the overhead monitors light up with paperwork she's been digitally sifting through since this morning.

"Aram, anything?" Cooper turned to him.

"Red and Liz call each other every night. He seems to be using a different burner phone each week; completely untraceable. It seems like around the time she gets off from the Post Office. So, things didn't change there. And there's been no usage on either of their cell phones since they turned them off last night," Aram says from his computer station.

Copper makes his way over and looks at the technical jibber jabber on the screen in front of him. He squinted at the screen and found he didn't understand a thing. He nodded and looked around the room.

"Liz's car must have a GPS; so does Reddington's for that matter," Meera said aloud.

"Reddington had some of his guys do something to it so they couldn't be traced by GPS," Ressler piped up absentmindedly.

"And you know this how?" Cooper said as he turned to the younger agent.

"Liz and I were meeting Reddington one day and she drove. A few weird screens came on before the GPS would boot up and take us to the location," he shrugged. "I asked her about it and she just told me Red had his techs modify it. As if you couldn't tell just by looking at it."

He looked around and noticed all of them looked at him in confusion.

"I guess you'd have to see the car," he sighed. The joke clearly went over their heads.

"What about his chip?" Cooper asked as he figured the car would now get him nothing.

"He took it out before he left," Meera shrugged. "By a medical professional or with Dembe's help. Ressler and I went to his location when you called and the chip was just lying there on the counter in his hotel room bathroom. Staff said they hadn't seen Liz last night or at anytime. So, we don't technically know if they're together or not. Either way, this will get calls faster if we put out a simple alert."

Ressler watched as the FBI most wanted tag appeared in screen with both Red and Liz's picture. Red hadn't been moved back to four. So Keen has become four and he was still two.

"We can't yet," Cooper shook his head. "If we put this out, this place will shut down until the Senate hearings are through and even then it would be a long shot until we're open again. No, this has to be kept in house until we find proof Agent Keen is with Reddington."

"Agent Ressler," Cooper said as he shifted from Meera to Donald. "I want you to go to any safe house you know of; look through papers, whatever kind of information is there if there is anything. Find me something on Reddington and possibly Keen's location."

"Yes, sir," he noted. He gave Meera Malik a look as he passed her and moved to the elevators that would take him to the subfloor garage.

Ressler let himself into the house he had once trailed Keen to after she had gotten grazed with a bullet as they took down a blacklister. She had gotten field medical treatment but refused a hospital visit. He asked if she would be all right and she had told him it wasn't anything a good book and a glass of milk couldn't fix. He had laughed at the sheer absurdity of having milk as the cure all drink but whatever floated her boat. That night he had watched her park from a far, knowing this was not her house from what he had remembered in her personnel file. He wasn't really sure what he was expecting to find other than her go-to person at the other side of the door. But he was still oddly surprised when Reddington not only opened the door himself but was seemingly dressed down in comparison to his usual outfits. His fedora was gone, suit jacket, vest, and tie disposed of as well. And he didn't miss when Keen moved past Reddington into the house, the man looked in his direction and gave him a nod. As he pushed the memory back into the recess of his mind, he walked around the house, not necessarily looking for the man and woman in question. More like he wanted answers to questions he's had for more than five years of hunting Reddington now. There was no Anslo Garrick type individuals to leak where Reddington's location was to him this time around. Slowly he himself had been eliminating that possible informant list without really knowing that was what he was doing.

He sat himself down on the couch and picked up a few books, half-heartedly looking through them. He found a bottle of milky white substance and smelled it. This was obviously far from milk, despite the color.

His phone suddenly rang and he picked it up, frowning at the Unknown on his caller ID.

"Ressler," he answered.

"Donald," a familiar voice rang out. "I do see you've made yourself quite comfortable in my home. You should know that is Lizzie's favorite spot."

"Where the hell are you, Reddington?" he asked. He looked around. He knew a camera was in the room otherwise Red wouldn't have called and he certainly wouldn't have known what seat he had taken.

"Fear not," Red told him. "Lizzie is perfectly fine here. She rather likes seeing the world."

"Let me talk to her," Ressler answered.

"She and Dembe went for a walk with Hudson. It's just me and this iPad device watching your every move. If you are looking for our location you certainly won't find it in stacks of books and manuscripts," Red said. "But I promise no harm will ever come to her."

Logically, Donald knows this. But he wants to make sure Keen is okay and needs to hear from her that she went willingly and this wasn't some kind of weird kidnapping or Stockholm syndrome or something.

"Malik wants to put her in your old spot," Ressler said. He had no idea why he was telling the man this. He knew he'd eventually find out but not knowing where your friend was in the world was possibly making him feel he should tell the man she was with. "Cooper's holding off until he gets proof she's with you."

The phone on the other end was silent for some time.

"Reddington?" he asks after the silence extends too long.

"I'm still here, Donald," his voice rings out.

"Is she happy?" he asked.

"I hope so," Red said quietly. Almost solemnly.

The disconnected call sounded a moment later in his ear and he hung up his phone. Now he had to make the call to tell Cooper if he received this call or wait until more information comes in. The little mason jar was staring at him, begging to be used. He poured a small amount of the white liquid into the jar and put it up to his nose. As soon as it hit his tongue, he coughed. Its was strangely awful but delicious all at the same time. He sat back against the couch cushion, looking out the window and contemplating his choices.

* * *

L'Ambroisie in the Place Des Vosges was admittedly not Liz's first choice of restaurants. He had told her it might take a few attempts for the food to be to her liking and she was skeptical of the place since he made the suggestion. Because of this, he opted for the private dining area that was simpler both in decor and pressure. Rather than a dining room full of people there are two tables, simple white china with finely crafted silver, and a crystal chandelier hangs above the tables decorated with a white linen table cloth. The fabrics she saw were beautiful and the chairs were both plush and lush as well as elegant. The marble floor was polished so much, she could see her reflection and both her heels and Red's soft sole shoes tapped a rhythm as they walked to their table. Their private table had a simple silver vase of yellow roses in the center of the table and that was it as far as decorations. It set the bar to one she could reach, she thought, as this was technically their first date since venturing into the gray area they find themselves in now. When she was handed the menu she sighed and Red smirked. She'd have to rely on his ordering because he not only spoke French but he could read it, too.

He ordered a white wine this time around-she didn't catch the name because all the French words sounded the same to her. But it was light and crisp. Fruity but not so much a Riesling fruity but more like an afterthought of apple and pear. He had told her there would be five mini-courses and she nodded. She opened her menu to pretend like she would be ordering for herself and she caught a few familiar French terms but otherwise looked to keep herself busy.

She liked the gougères-light, flaky, slightly crispy yet soft pillows of cheesy hollow baked dough. She briefly wished for some kind of sauce to dip them in but realized perhaps dipping food into things was really American of her.

Since they had the room to themselves, Red seemed to be more open and more himself than he would have been in the other two dining areas.

"How much is this costing you?" she asked as she twirls the stem of her wine glass.

"At a certain point money doesn't become an issue," he tells her. "I can give you the world, Lizzie. All you would have to do is ask. But it's not so much money as who you know."

"Of course you know someone," she laughs. When does he not know someone.

"The chef and I go way back," Red nodded. "He has wanted me to dine here with a woman besides Luli for years. Funny how each time we dine, she always comes up."

Liz gave him a brief smile and he sighed into his wine.

"What?" she asked.

"I thought it was customary to not talk about relationships of the opposite sex on a date," Red told her.

"If we were to follow custom, I think the world might collapse into itself," Liz told him. She took a sip of her own wine glass. "The only one who is off limits is... you know."

He nodded as she shrugged; he knew quite well.

Red ordered her a butternut squash soup for a starter while he had a broccoli and white truffle scallops. She frowned at the smell of the whipped garnish and the nuttiness of whatever cheese they had whipped into a cream garnish. But the soup itself was all right. He offered to let her try his but the idea of scallops turned her stomach. She could handle some fish but shrimp, scallops, and oysters were out of the question.

To add to his fish finding mission, it seemed like to her, he ordered some kind of caviar for the next mini-course. He had told her that she wouldn't like anything in this course so he had only ordered something for himself while she finished her soup and stole his leftover gougères. She was sure at this point he'd definitely have to gargle a whole bottle of mouthwash before she ever kissed him again. He chuckled as if he read her mind as he spooned the black caviar onto a cracker.

"No. Remember, I tried your fertilized duck egg," she said as his brow rose in an unspoken question of whether she wanted to try the caviar. "Yes, I threw up on your shoes but I didn't complain and that was probably the most disgusting thing I have ever tried. I won't be trying any more eggs of yours."

He shook his head and laughed wholeheartedly at the memory. Even Dembe had to exit the room from watching her try that hell. It's a wonder how she trusts him to order her food when he's done that awful thing to her.

Their main course was small as well. He ordered her some kind of lamb while he went with the lobster with rosemarin. She did try his, just the smallest of bites and shook her head. She mentally added lobster to the list of textures she didn't enjoy. He smiled and laughed, claiming more for him. In return, she gave him a piece of hers and he commented the cilantro based sauce really made the flavor stand out in the piece of meat. She couldn't help but agree.

She really got behind the pre-dessert sorbet that was supposed to clean the palate. It was pear sorbet with two dark chocolate triangles. She just wished there was more than a spoonful of this because she would have gladly eaten it all night. At the dessert course, he ordered another glass of wine while she ate the chocolate torte with bourbon vanilla ice cream and a vanilla syrup sugar glaze. It wasn't a heavy torte like she expected. Rather, it was more a soufflé and the dark chocolate seemed to melt on her tongue as she tried to make it last. The vanilla ice cream was intense-far more vanilla tasting than that of any American version of vanilla ice cream. Red shifted the vase out of the way and zeroed in on her dessert.

"I've never had dessert here," he tells her.

"You mean you never steal off anyone else's plate?" she asked.

"Luli was never really a dessert sort of person; preferred tea to a nightcap or chocolate and the like. And I am rather fond of my fingers and Dembe really likes to hoard his dessert all to himself."

"She liked that yogurt place," she countered.

He nodded in defeat. She did indeed like the tart frozen yogurt. That type of dessert wasn't too sweet for her otherwise absent sweet tooth. And she was trying to at least have something in common with Liz. But he'd save that tidbit for later.

"This is absolutely divine. I think we should really try another dessert. Dembe really likes those petit fours and whatever the combination is," he continues. He scoops more of the sugar glaze and watches as she looks at him when he stuck his tongue out to clean off his spoon of the glaze.

She let him have the rest, not much left, but he seemed to enjoy the few bites she did leave.

The chef greets them as Red asks the waiter to gather their coats. He has Liz stand up and turn and she doesn't fail to notice Red watches with a careful eye. He kisses her cheeks and calls her beautiful in a thick French accent as he tells her it in English. As he lets her sit back down in her seat, Red stands and greets the man. They speak in French, she catches a few words but she assumes they speak of both business and pleasure.

"I know how much Dembe likes the petit fours, the chocolate truffles, and madelines here," the chef says as he switches from French to English. "I noticed your lady only had the cake so I have given you a bit of everything to eat perhaps later, no."

"Merci, Marcel," Red nods.

"Anything for a beautiful woman," the man laughs.

Red looks at her as he laughs along. He's got that look in his eye again and in a flash its gone.

They walk back to their hotel on the riverfront just a few blocks away from the Place Des Vosges. They walk side by side for a block, shoulders brushing and she notices in her peripheral he tends to look at her as opposed to watching where he's going. When they stop at a corner and wait for the traffic to clear, she slips her hand in his. He doesn't look at her but his palm is warm and familiar against hers and he's the one that tightens the hold on her fingers.

He drops her hand when they enter the suite and takes her coat. She watches as he places their coats in the small closet and he places his fedora on the rack just above the coats. She proceeds him into the main room and a note tells them Dembe's been kind enough to take Hudson out for the nightly walk already. And as it's already one o'clock in the morning he would have certainly been jumping to go outside.

"I had a nice time," she said.

He chuckled and shook his head. He stared down at the two little takeout boxes in his hands.

"Still hungry?" he asked.

She bit her lip and he waved her to the couch. She smirked as he sat down and began to disassemble one of the takeout boxes. Soon enough four petit fours and four chocolate truffles stared up at them.

"Ladies first," he told her.

She looked at the various desserts at her selection and picked the small strawberry torte with four mini strawberries in what smelled like grand marnier. She bit half of it, taking two strawberries and half the torte for herself and used her fingers to keep the other two strawberries from falling into her lap and onto the dress Red had just bought her. The orange liqueur really made the strawberries stand out in the dessert and the torte wasn't overly dry like ones she had tasted in corner shops back in DC. She motioned for him to take the other half and he shook his head.

"Dembe's not going to share with you," she pointed out. "And this is really quite good."

She expected the fact she'd have to put it in his mouth since the torte was too small to really take without it getting everywhere but he really didn't have to go and scrape his teeth along her fingers as she placed it in his mouth. To get back at him, she placed her digits in her mouth, licking the sticky sweetness off her thumb and forefinger.

They traded back and forth between the eclair, the dark chocolate madeline, and the vanilla bean madeline. They each took two of the truffles and she closed her eyes in sweet relief when the silky smooth, runny chocolate hit her tongue. She thought she perhaps might have tasted a bit of the grand marnier in the truffle, too.

She watches as he makes sure his fingers are clean of any dessert before he undos his vest and releases his tie from around his neck ever so slightly. When he completes the task, his arm goes around the back of the couch and she doesn't miss his thumb brushing against her shoulder where the sleeve of her dress drops off and he meets soft skin.

"We'll make sure to go there again so the chef can personalize a menu style for you," Red tells her as he turns back to face her.

"I'll try and get used to the idea of fancy foods," she smiles when a small smile appears in the corner of his lips.

"We'll visit holes in the wall, too," he assures her.

"Thank you," she nods. She was afraid it would always be fine dining when he takes her to extravagant, romantic cities around the world. But then she remembers he's very versatile and likes fancy as well as little non-touristy places. When she yawned, covering her mouth at the last minute, he suggested she head to bed.

He walked her down the hall on the left-the bigger room, he had told her-and she paused just outside the doorframe. She turned and looked at him, catching his eyes and then dropped to his mouth-watching as his lips parted absentmindedly at the scrutiny. She watched him move inches forwards and he captured her lips, his fingers nestling in the hair at the nape of her neck and pressing close. A moment later, he pulled away and her fingers went to her lips.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he says with a single nod.

"'Night, Red," she whispers back.

He watches as she makes sure Hudson is in her room before she closes the door. He's too wired to sleep so he unties his tie, leaves it hanging off his collar and goes back down the hall to the main room. He sheds his suit jacket and vest before he sits. He thinks about calling Dembe but the man has a long day ahead tomorrow and thinks perhaps a game of solo chess is in order.

* * *

Harold Cooper never realized how much he depended on Raymond Reddington's intel until they tried to take down their first blacklister without his help. They were mere minutes late, according to the commander of the take down team. Meera Malik's connections were excellent but Reddington always seemed to have connections everywhere in the matter of minutes where Malik's took days which he figured may cost them the occasional lead on the blacklister.

In regards to his missing agent and Reddington, he had turned the other cheek when Malik had told him that hypothetically if one was to reach out their connection and ask for a simple picture of Raymond Reddington, they might actually get somewhere with their limbo status with Elizabeth Keen. He had agreed that hypothetically he would authorize this. Realistically, the young agent and the Concierge of Crime were giving him migraines.

* * *

Dembe has gone for the night after dinner for three. This time it was a relatively low key place but that didn't mean they all hadn't dressed nicely. Dembe's own hotel room was always two doors down from Red's own. Tonight they had changed hotels-he never sleeps in the same place more than two nights in a row, after all-and he's booked the usual double room for them and Dembe's own single room. It's been only two weeks of this and she wonders how many five star hotels there are in Paris. Or are they leaving soon to another destination? She doesn't know at this point. She's not even sure if he does. Hudson's already down for the count by the time they decide to retire for the night. Almost as if he can sense her apprehension, he pauses in his steps as they get closer to the door that leads to her bedroom. She turns to face him and she can see him trying to glimpse at her thoughts before she voices them.

"Is this how it's going to be every night?" She asked. He tips his head forward silently asking her to continue so he can better understand what she's meaning. "Wining and dining? Being flown city to city on a whim? Fancy clothes and tailors always double checking the fit of your suits and seamstresses always wanting to let in rather than let out on all of mine?"

"Don't be silly, Lizzie," he jests. "We'll have to let Roderick sleep sometimes."

She wants to laugh but somehow her thoughts derail the laughter.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here," she says honestly. "Don't get me wrong; I like the idea but... I just..."

Their eyes connected as she trails off and he could see she desperately wanted answers to questions lingering in her mind. He nods and she can see his jaw clench ever so slightly before he begins to speak.

"I love you," he says.

"What?" She responds quickly; without thinking.

"I love you," he pauses after each word. He needs to make sure she gets what he's saying so perhaps the third times the charm. He moves closer, his hands going to both her shoulders. He cups them in his hands and he can feel the tense weight of lingering questions defeating her. His hands slope down to her clavicle and his fingers flit across the soft skin underneath them. The square necklines she often prefers shows off one of his favorite parts about her. His calloused fingers-from years of manual labor and early days of boot camp of assembling and disassembling various weaponry-have remarkable powers to render her speechless. He never misses the way she shudders ever so slightly, how her breathing hitches and the little tendons in her neck clench and release as his touch runs across the skin underneath them. He trails his fingers up, barely touching the skin of her neck, running his fingers across her jaw and then he cups her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks; her eyes dart from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

"I love you Lizzie; that is why you're here. That is why I wine you and dine you, and buy you nice things. It's in hopes that you'll return just the slightest of affections for me. I know you couldn't possibly love me but perhaps you have grown to at least like me or care about me."

She looks down, her eyes catching the tie at his neck. Its loose and the collar button as well as the first button is undone allowing for a brief glimpse of skin. As she stares at the ruby red tie that matches perfectly with her dress, she replays his words in her mind.

"You see... this is the part where you're supposed to say something poetically romantic like  _I care about you_  or  _you smell good_. Or perhaps even tell me you want to go back home and forget all of this has come to pass."

Instead, she stays silent. Still stuck in the in-between.

He nods and tips his head. As she looks up, he looks defeated. His hands drop from her face with a brushing of fingers against her jaw and he turns to leave.

"Raymond," she calls out. Her voice is strangely rough and deep and she's never really heard this tone from herself before. It's the first time she's used his name since the plane trip to Paris exactly one month ago. He pauses for the sheer surprise of her calling his real name out as opposed to the 'Red' she's so fond of.

"You smell good," she tries to smile.

She laughs. It's an absurd statement to make but it is true. She doesn't quite know if she loves him yet but she's certainly fond of him. And she certainly doesn't want whatever it is that they're doing to suddenly be fraught with awkwardness and tension just because she didn't say anything. She knows that he knows she's not ready to make the sort of confession he did. But some part of her must know that's how it will end up or why else did she change her mind in the first place.

His eyes give him away. The green is brighter; and he actually holds her gaze perhaps in part to see if she's lying or simply giving him a placating answer to his confession. So, she holds her own in their little staring contest in the hallway next to her bedroom. She doesn't know why she's so conflicted; why she's questioning everything. Perhaps it's because she's unconsciously comparing her relationship with him to her former relationship with Tom. Logically, she knows it is different in every way. Realistically, she can't help it. The biggest one was perhaps what brought her questions out tonight: it's been a month and he has yet to take her to his bed. With Tom it has happened the third date. With Red, they wine and dine and she considers it a date if Dembe chooses not to go; they take Hudson out for a walk in the darkening night sky with her on his arm and Hudson's lead in his hand; he often touches her like she will disappear in a flash before his eyes; and he walks her to her bedroom door every night, hands skimming her waist and pressing her back against the door until she's breathless and wanting. But then he pulls back and slowly opens his eyes, whispering his good nights and sweet dreams. And maybe he's waiting for her to make the first move, she realizes.

She can see him moving back towards her at her confession and she watches his lips. As his face inches closer, almost in slow motion, she tilts her head and closes her eyes. His lips brush against hers once, twice, not kissing her but simply making the briefest of contact. She opens her eyes slightly to find his closed and his hands are poised halfway in the air to touch her but he's pausing for some reason she'll probably never know. His lips are parted ever so slightly and she reaches out and her hands steady themselves at his waist as she leans in. Her eyes close as she finally presses their lips together in more than a simple brush pass and she lingers, lost in the softness of his lips. Wordlessly, his lips part a little more as she presses tightly against him in the middle of the hallway and she thinks kissing Raymond Reddington is quite intoxicating. She tastes the lingering scotch still on his tongue as he finished it off just as he proceeded to walk her back here. He tastes oaky with a touch of cinnamon and she explores for the first time. Usually it is him that is kissing her. But tonight their roles have changed and she thinks perhaps he likes the role reversal. The almost silent hum he makes as she pulls away, the way he follows her unconsciously as she pulls away, suggests he's feared her rejection.

Her tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip as he opens his eyes slowly. He smiles and he gets this little tic under his eye and her own lips curve into a smile.

"Goodnight, Raymond," she says quietly. His really name sounds awkward on her tongue and it will no doubt take some getting used to. But she's quite willing to try out his name.

"Goodnight, Lizzie," he whispers back.

She opens her door and nods once and shuts the door. She leans against it and lingers. She hears him let out a deep breath and he gives an almost silent chuckle as he chastises himself. She hears his footsteps walk back down the hall until they've all but disappeared.

Perhaps now that she's initiated something he will be more sure of himself around her in regards to their relationship.

* * *

The Palias Garnier was grander than she imagined. It was just the two of them in the place after a late night dinner. He bribed a security guard-she pretended not to see the envelope exchange hands and the man made himself scarce.

She had been wined and dined inside the theatre's own restaurant-L'Opera Restaurant. She had to stop herself from giggling as she noticed everything was red-the chairs, the mood lighting, the curtains. As they waited, his arm wrapped around her waist and brought her close. She leaned in close and her cheek brushed against his own as she spoke in his ear.

"I think we might have stepped inside your dream restaurant," she laughed.

She felt more than heard his chuckled response. Standing so close, she felt the little rumble and felt his hands shift on her lower back.

Since this place was know for drinks over wine selection, she was pleasantly surprised to see the return of the aviation cocktail for both of them. She preferred this restaurant to L'Ambroisie in terms of food but she did like the quiet, natural light of the former.

"There's no plays tonight," he said after dinner had been finished. She was staring at the entrance as he looked at his watch. "But I could get us in."

He knew she had a special affinity for the theatre. She had heard this was a beautiful place and she had always wanted to see Phantom here. But she never had the time nor money.

When he leads her to the middle of the room, the only thing she can really do is turn in place and marvel at what is in front of her. She touches the grand staircase, the marble cool against her warm skin. It send shivers up her spine. Or perhaps it's the man at her back, his palm pressing close and inching higher as he leans in. His nose graces the shell of her ear and she leans back into him unconsciously.

"It reminds me of Beauty and the Beast. The ballroom dancing scene," he whispers. "Addy was gone by the time that movie came out but Dembe's nieces do like their Disney princesses."

She was about to turn, tell him they could just go back to the hotel but he propelled her up the first set of stairs. He nodded and his hand ghosted down her back and returned to his side. He nodded to the second staircase and smiled.

"Indulge me," he said.

She looked at him and noticed how he watched her every move. She took a deep breath as she climbed to the top and looked at the view from this angle. This was by far her favorite place. Not the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or any other major tourist attraction but this single opera house. The one that draws in the theatre nerds and those obsessed with art and architecture history.

When she finally walked down the staircase, he held his hand out for her to take as she reached the final steps. She took it and his pressed his lips to the back of her hand and rewarded her with a smile.

"Shall we?" He asked as he nodded to the next staircase that descended to the grand foyer.

She bowed her head and descended the last stair, wrapping her arm around his as they walked to the middle of the staircase. She looked up at the mural above them, certain Red wouldn't let her trip and injure herself. When they were at the main level again, he tipped his hat and she laughed and gave him a half sort of curtsey.

He met her in the middle, his hand moved to unbutton her coat and slipped between the layer, taking her by the waist and folding her hand in his other one. Her own arm wrapped around him and she wished he just had his vest on so she could loop a finger through the back and keep herself steady. But of course he wore a coat and suit jacket. A laugh bubbled up from her as he did a clumsy sort of waltz with her tripping as she tried to follow his lead.

"We're going to have to work on your waltzing, Lizzie," he whispers against her ear. "Don't watch our feet, just feel."

She pressed closer and her cheek brushed with his. She heard the soft sigh escape his lips as his unshaven cheek met her soft skin. Her lips grazed his skin as she turned her head and she watched him close his eyes but he continued to step in a rhythm without breaking stride. She also certainly didn't miss the hand on the small of her back tighten before loosening once more.

She had so many questions and not enough answers. But at this moment, she was lost in the feeling. The rest of the world seemed to drop away as they danced quietly in the darkened room. If only it was always this simple, she thought as she closed her own eyes.

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Laurence Dechambou was beautiful. Much more so in person than what The Courier had snapped of her all those years ago. Where Liz felt drained and exhausted after years of chasing blacklisters, Dechambou looked not a day older than when she had last been seen. And if that wasn't enough, she was hanging onto Red as though she belonged there. She looked like it-hair perfectly coifed, sharply dressed and matching coat hanging over her free arm. Meanwhile, she and Dembe were across the room from Dechambou and Red as he discussed something with the woman.

"Do you know what she's doing back here?" Liz asked Dembe as they stared at one of the paintings the placard said was from the post-modernist movement. It was too geometric for her taste. Too bright and cheery. Too much yellow.

"She has most likely landed herself in trouble," Dembe told her. "He likes it when she owes him favors."

"Oh," Liz nodded.

"Not what you are thinking, Liz," Dembe said as he moved along as Red and Dechambou moved from the painting they had been standing in front of as they spoke.

"If you say so," she tells him. She remembers Red's suggestion to Ressler that to get information out of Dechambou he could just bend her over any surface and slap her on the ass. And then she remembers that he told her she didn't want to know how he was going to get Seth's location out of the woman if Harold released her. Logically, the favor would most likely be in the favors she didn't want to imagine let alone talk about with Dembe.

"She has turned into an intelligence asset," Dembe says, breaking through her thoughts. "She was a very high placed intelligence officer when Raymond first became who he is now. She still has many contacts in the intelligence field. If Raymond is to keep you safe, he needs assets with well-placed information connections."

"This is about me?" Liz asked.

Dembe only looked straight ahead. He has already said enough.

They kept walking as Red and Dechambou moved between paintings and rooms until they were once again at the entrance. Liz reached into her coat and pulled out her gloves as she knew they'd be going back outside again. It was unseasonably cold October day in Paris. At least, she thought so. It was almost Washingtonian in chilly wind gusts and overcast gray skies.

"Raymond has not enjoyed meeting with Dechambou since their meeting here all those years ago," he said. "All the years I have known Raymond, most of them he has spent talking about you to Luli and I and protecting you from afar. Now that he does not have the FBI's help in protecting you, he must go outside to his own assets."

As if Red heard them talking about him, he and Dechambou ceased walking near a quieter area outside of the Louvre and he waved them over.

She placed her hand in the crook of Dembe's elbow as they walked over to the two. She felt Laurence Dechambou's overt gaze as she looked between the woman and Red.

"She looks like a cop," Dechambou says.

Red laughs and shakes his head.

"She does, doesn't she," Red quips. He holds out his hand to Liz and Dembe drops his arm to his side as Liz slides her gloved hand into Red's own.

"Is this a set up?" Dechambou asks. "Is French Intelligence or Interpol arresting me as soon as I step out of this area?"

"If they are, the order didn't come from me," Red says. "I would think you trust me enough to keep you outside a prison. Especially if I am going to get an IOU for helping you, Laurence."

"They could come from her," Dechambou says as she looks at Liz.

"Laurence, be careful of who you accuse," Red warned.

"She looks like a cop. What else am I supposed to think? What are you even doing here?" she asks.

"She's never been to Paris," Red says as he looks at her. His grin is cocky and he pulls her closer. One of her gloved hands holds the lapel of his coat to keep her steady. "What do you need us to do? Kiss in front of you? I'm sure you'd like that. Perhaps that's what gets you off these days."

Liz makes a noise in the back of her throat low enough for only Red to hear and he snickers at himself.

"Okay," Dechambou says as if he were serious.

He looks to the woman and sees the stance she's taken. She obviously believes he won't do it. Sadly, she's in for it because what she doesn't know is he'll take any available opportunity to showcase his feelings Lizzie. He rather enjoys kissing her and finds public displays of affection rather charming when it comes to the woman currently by his side.

He looked her in the eyes and asked permission before he did anything. She knew she conveyed hesitant permission as soon as he captured her lips. His fedora knocked against her forehead as she was unprepared for him but quickly tilted her head and he claimed her mouth with a seemingly hungry urgency. Her lips parted almost instantly as his tongue darted across her lips an sought permission to enter. He titled his head the same way she did and she laughed as he could only briefly press his lips against hers. He reclaimed her mouth as the arm that wrapped around her waist moved and his hand pressed into the small of her back to press her closer. Her hands were clutched onto either side of his coat as she tilted her head ever so slightly so his Borsalino didn't keep knocking her forehead. When she smiled against his lips, he broke it off. He opened his eyes slowly and licked his lips slowly, breathing in deeply as his gaze turned from her to Dechambou.

"Satisfied?" he asked as he tilted his head. "She may look like a cop, but she's certainly on my side."

Brown eyes sought her own and her brows rose in question. She has no idea what is happening but apparently their display was enough for Dechambou to believe whatever Red had told her.

"Fine," the woman said as she crossed her arms. "Help me get out of the country and I will owe you."

"We have a deal," Red nodded. He tilted his head and Liz felt a brief touch of the brim brush her hair. "Dembe will contact you in a day or two. We have some more business to finish elsewhere."

The three of them watched as Laurence Dechambou disappeared from their sight into the throngs of tourists and commoners alike. Before she could look down at the cobblestone beneath her feet, Red titled her chin up to look at him.

"I know that was reaching," he began. "She was quite curious about you and wasn't sure what to make of you. Despite your new life on the lam, you do seem like a cop, still. Not that I mind."

She bit the inside of her lip as she thought about it.

"This was all to protect me?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers quickly and succinctly.

"Okay," she nods.

"Okay?" he asks quite unsure of himself.

"Let's just go get Hudson for his walk and you and Dembe can work. I think I'll go exploring."

His smile was enough for her as he turned and nodded to Dembe.

He really liked to mess with her feelings and she needed a quiet space to think.

* * *

He sighed as he looked up at the massive church in front of him. When he returned from his dealings with Dembe for Laurence Dechambou's new life, Lizzie had simply left a note that she had gone to a sanctuary and she'd be back. Just as Hudson circled his legs in greeting, Dembe knocked on the door and his face lit up with withheld information. After passing the note, Red sighed and asked Dembe to watch Hudson. He had to go find a sanctuary.

Norte Dame was a sanctuary. It was fitting he found her here for both what he wanted to discuss with her and she knew he often found solace in having his conversations in secrecy, wrapped in the shadows. When he opened the door and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found her sitting in a pew looking towards the eastern section of the church. Funny how he could always seem to pick her out in the crowd. It was dark inside; the sun was beginning to set outside and he could see it through the stained glass above them. The blue glass behind the ornate alter was a dim blue as the lights surrounding the paintings cast an orange glow. It was fire and ice in this sanctuary. It wasn't overly crowded but there were still a lot of people there for a Tuesday. He took his hat off and watched the blue tile at his feet as he made his way over to her form.

She had her eyes closed, her fingers running against her scar as she ran through her thoughts. There were a few people milling around but somehow she knew the steps behind her were Red's. She had left a few seats open beside her in the pew and felt when he sat beside her. She opened her eyes to find him opening his mouth to work his jaw, licking his lips, and turning his face towards the stained glass windows to the north and east of their seat.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked as he looked at the alter once more.

"Yeah," she nodded. She had never seen anything else like it.

"That most terrible church of the most glorious Virgin Mary, mother of God, deservedly shines out, like the sun among stars," he said as he turned his head to face her. "Jean de Jandun once said that about this place."

Her fingers stopped running across the raised scar on her wrist when he took her wrist. His own fingers traced the scar at her palm as he took her hand in his own.

"You think more people would be here with it being close to Halloween," he said.

Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed in confusion as she looked at him.

"They come to church for Halloween?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head. "Perhaps they want to prepare for All Saints Day. Halloween here isn't like in the States. Though, it is becoming more and more popular with the younger generations."

"Foreign exchange students getting the spirit of Halloween message around?" she joked.

"Something like that," he nodded. "Speaking of messages, Dembe's received a message from one of my couriers. He wants a meeting in London."

The first thing she thinks about when he says London is Meera's accent, her stories about being deep cover there. It seems too coincidental.

"A set up?" she asks.

"Most likely," he nods. He gets a little tic in his jaw and she looks up at him. "If anything, it's Agent Malik who is in charge of the meet."

At least they are on the same wavelength when it comes to this. But then, they've always been able to communicate without leaps in thinking. If anything, in the beginning, she was taking hops not leaps to try and think like him rather than the linear FBI way. She had to if she wanted to keep up with him and have him be proud of her.

"A take down?" she wonders.

"Probably just want a picture of you," he shakes his head. "They're most likely trying to get definitive proof you are with me to ascertain whether or not you've been compromised."

She lets out a little breathy laugh and puts her head down to stare at their entwined fingers. She wonders what constitutes as compromised in the FBI's books.

"You and Hudson can stay here. It should only be a day trip at most. I don't think they'll do a take down due to the mess Interpol finds itself in these days but I don't want to chance it if you don't want to. France has much stricter guidelines compared to London."

"I've never been to London either," she points out.

"I know," he nodded.

She licked her lips and watched the few rays of sunlight filter in through the glass.

"Let me think about it?" she asked.

He nods and is drawn to the way her free hand flits across their entwined one.

"What were you thinking about?" He asked.

"The team," she said after a moment of quiet stillness.

"You miss them?" Red asked. Although by his tone, it seemed like he already knew the answer to the question.

She shrugged and slumped a little in the pew. She moved their hands from their sides to her lap. Her other hand traced the down his fingers that held her own. The action seemed to calm her as much as rubbing her scar did.

"I guess I miss being a part of the team. I was getting comfortable with them, you know? Ressler and I got along well. He certainly saved my life a few times over. We were friends, kind of." She wasn't really sure what constituted a friend these days. She worked too long of hours to have a life outside work. Perhaps it was just her who had thought her colleagues could be thought of as friends. "Amir also saved my life, with Garrick. And Meera and I probably could have been good friends if you didn't keep her away so often doing your dirty work."

He frowned and his lips pursed.

"Lizzie, do you want to go back?" he asked.

"Sometimes I think about it and then think about the fact I'm probably wanted for going with you. Cooper barely put up with me when I wasn't the go between. He'll certainly want nothing to do with me now that he thinks I'm compromised."

It wasn't a definitive answer but he didn't really expect anything less than that.

He turned back to watching the slowly setting sun make the orange light glow brighter around them. He let out a soft sigh as her shoulder brushed his and her head bumped against his own as she got lost in her own thoughts again.

* * *

It didn't happen too often but he was a fairly fantastic cook. She was a disaster in the kitchen-she knew it and told him as much-so she was reduced to a glass of wine and curling up with Hudson as Dembe and Red cooked meals in their hotel suite that was more like a penthouse.

After a taxi drive and short walk back to the hotel from Norte Dame with her on his arm, he declared himself too exhausted to go out and suggested eating in. She knew it was for her benefit. He wasn't ashamed of being seen with her in everyday wear-she had changed into after meeting with Laurence Dechambou-it was simply a case of he knew she wasn't in the right frame of mind. She had to make too many decisions and there wasn't enough time to really process it.

"Should be ready in twenty minutes," he said as he moved gracefully from the kitchen to the cushion opposite her on the couch. She looked over at him and noticed between coming back from the church and now he had shed his suit jacket, tie, vest, and a few buttons had been undone on his dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he heaved a quiet sigh as he sat.

"Where's Dembe?" she asked noticing he hadn't come out from the kitchen yet.

"Trying his hand at dessert," he noted. He sipped at his wine and closed his eyes. He felt more than saw Hudson place his muzzle on his knee and his free hand ran through the fur on the top of the dog's head.

"We need to get you groomed, Hudson," he told the dog as if he could answer back.

She noticed he was more apt to using plurals over singular nouns these days. But if she thought back to early on, he had always used them even in front of Ressler, Malik, and Cooper. Back then she had assumed he was talking about the team as the 'we' when really it always turned out to be the two of them.

The filets were cooked perfectly as was the mushroom and red wine reduction. Somehow although she's always seemed rather averse to asparagus, he always seems to order the perfect side dish or make his own delicious version. She also likes that he prefers the thin asparagus to the wide stalk. Somehow it tastes better when they are the same size as a whole green bean stalk. Dembe's chocolate obsession was almost equivalent to her own sweet tooth. Three small, simple chocolate molten lava cakes were dusted with powered sugar and had fresh raspberries sitting atop the cake. She had told Dembe between bites of the cake this was her favorite dessert and he shouldn't make it again because she was going to get fat from eating all of this rich food. He had laughed and shook his head. She hated to leave him to the dishes but he insisted he finish the dishes so she and Red didn't have a mess to come back to after taking Hudson for his nightly walk.

They walked to the Seine River. She certainly hadn't meant to walk more than a few blocks but her feet kept moving and Red simply directed her with her arm in one hand and Hudson's lead in the other. The autumn season was more noticeable here with the trees turning brown and the grass although green wasn't like in the pictures as they walked down the avenue parallel to the river.

"Love, even in its humblest beginnings, is a striking example of how little reality means to us," he says as they walk down a little winding sidewalk between the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and Avenue Gabriel.

"Who said that?" she asks.

He points to the little path's markings and notices a familiar author's name.

"Marcel Proust," she says aloud.

" _In Search of Lost Times_ ," he notes. "Of course many take his words out of context, there's a million and a half of them just in the volumes alone. Hallmark certainly loves to use Proust without the context."

"Do you believe that?" she asks. Of course she knows that he knows she doesn't mean the bit about Hallmark but the bit about love in its humble beginnings. He's at least been in love with someone that hadn't deceived him. Meanwhile, everything she had ever known about love turned out to be a lie.

The tic in his cheek is the only thing that provides her an answer. And even then it isn't even definitive. The walk back is silent but not uncomfortably so. She wraps her arm around his own and walks closer to him in an effort to stay warm. And when they arrive back to the hotel room, Dembe is nowhere to be found-gone back to his own room, most likely-with all the dishes stacked neatly on the drying rack next to the sink.

She leaves for her room in an effort to get comfortable clothes on while he lets Hudson off his lead and sheds his own few layers he had put on after dinner. She comes back in the room with an oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants on and one of the blankets tucked up on her shoulders. She leans against the entryway as she sees him sitting in the corner of the couch seemingly oblivious to the world as he does a crossword.

It was strangely peaceful to watch Raymond Reddington be domestic and still. She had only really seen this side a handful of times and she felt it was rather appealing to her. She wondered if he enjoyed the quiet downtime as well. Or if his life on the run seemed to suck the domestic life aspect out of him and he enjoyed the thrill of the chase more. He kept coming back, though. Whenever he and Dembe left on an excursion with just a note next to the coffeepot, he had always come back and shared most details of whatever they had done. Sometimes it was shopping, sometimes he met with a contact or a courier who was in town. There's this sort of recklessness he's brought since he stepped into her life. One that led her to runaway with him and she still doesn't know what really compelled her to do so. She misses her team terribly but she has sort of this team with Red ever since that day she started trading his secrets for hers in the quiet of safe houses and shoddy apartments that housed swiped paintings and enough money to fund his own personal war. She doesn't quite know if she'll ever really get used to the idea of being on the run for the rest of her life but she's slowly reaching the point of no return. It's probably why she sought out the church-their unspoken sanctuary where they were free to discuss without wire tapping and free to pose as parishioners.

He looks up as if he can feel her stare and her thoughts and beckons her over. She curls into his side rather than the opposite arm of the couch and tucks her head on his shoulder. The blanket droops and he fixes it around his side and most of her before turning back to his task without a word.

She thinks she has it made up in her mind what she really wants but that always seems to change when he touches her with the small, fleeting touches. He's the flame and she's the moth, in this situation. And she wonders if she gets too close if he'll burn bright enough and hot enough to end her or spark out to save her. He's proved time and time again that he will do whatever necessary to keep her alive. But she doesn't know the real Raymond Reddington that Dembe seems to know. She wants more; she craves the knowledge more than she craves the teamwork she's left behind.

* * *

Hotel Le Bristol had an excellent pet care staff, or so they claim. Red hadn't wanted Hudson to come with them since he didn't find the appeal in staying overnight in London. She wasn't sure who missed each other the most: Hudson, Dembe, or Red. She guessed she would find out when they returned that night.

They were currently in the air, almost to London when she finally spoke to him.

"What am I doing?" she asked.

Red looked up from his book with questions written all over his face.

"At your meeting," she continued.

"You've made your decision then?" he asked.

"I have," she nodded.

He nodded and stared at her. She felt his eyes roaming her features, assessing her certainty.

"Fine," he nodded. "We can do lunch."

"What?" She asked.

"Dembe will be there for security, as usual," he said as he looked to the front of the plane where Dembe sat. "You can be there to keep me company."

"Why can't I do more?" She wondered.

"We're just having lunch with him, Lizzie. I doubt he'll have much for me other than to tell me he had no choice but to turn on me," Red said. He smiled as she pouted a little. "Don't worry, Lizzie. I'm sure you'll eventually be by my side for more than lunch."

When they arrived in London she didn't know where to look first. She found herself wanting to take it all in all at once as they drove to their hotel. To her, it seemed suspicious the hotel room was already booked in one of Red's aliases. But then again, he clearly knew it was a set up and he probably found this normal.

"The room will most likely be bugged," he told her as they stepped onto the elevator. "Which is why we will be heading back after dinner."

Obviously they were to make more than just a lunch trip out of the exchange. The hotel-St. Pancras Renaissance London Hotel-looked like a cathedral or something that should have been in the coffee table books of pictures of what old world charm was supposed to look like. The salmon colored outside with the blue-green-gray rooftop and cone-shaped spires gave it a sort of romantic feel. It was as gothic inside as it was outside despite the modernization of the new hotel, the old world still found a way to creep in. From the dark spiral staircases and the tall, narrow corridors, the gothic revival was still a key piece of architecture. The hotel room, at least the one Red had been booked in for the day was more of an apartment than a hotel room. Then again, she came to expect it now from his choice of hotels in DC and in Paris.

She looked around the room and looked behind her as he stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder, directing her towards a corner near the television.

"There's a camera," he whispered. "Most likely a listening device as well."

He didn't have to tell her to be careful with what she said. Although they could never use the tap against them, it was still protocol to not give secrets out when someone else was listening.

Elizabeth Keen got the first taste and experience of the real Concierge of Crime. Of course she had seen him work his title when he was under the deal he had with the FBI but this somehow seemed more sinister? Perhaps because it was her first taste of being on the other side of the law. She sighed as she placed the Borsalino atop her head. The brim was wide enough to shade her face and she had remembered Red's advice: it has to have a great angle, a nice cut, and the brim must be wide enough to provide shade or what's the point of wearing a hat?

Dembe had driven them to Côte, just a few blocks away from the hotel. She didn't miss the supposedly inconspicuous unmarked passenger vans outside the bistro a block away.

"Does the FBI surveillance look that bad?" she asks as she leans into him when he takes her hand and helps her out of the car.

"Some," he nods with a chuckle.

He took her arm and directed her towards the entrance to the bistro. He held open the door and looked around for his contact. They were early. And he remembered that his contact was often late. Claiming a table with their backs to the wall and their eyes on the door he shrugged out of his coat.

"Where's your contact?" She asked as she shimmied out of her coat and folded half of it behind her on the chair and watched as he did the same before they both sat down.

"Most likely getting coaching tips from whichever letter agency employs him now," Red nodded.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he watched her as she looked at the menu in her hands.

A waiter came to them and asked their drink order. He ordered a teapot and a white tea of some sort. As the man vanished to put in the order, she noticed Red staring.

"What?" She asked.

"You look quite fetching in my hat, you know," he told her.

Her hand automatically went to her head and felt the felt hat covering her head. He wore one of the same, a different ribbon on his.

A lazy yet cocky smile appeared on his lips and she ducked her head swiftly.

He liked it best when she was embarrassed, he thinks. The little blush spreading across her cheeks. She never looked more beautiful or kissable, for that matter.

"I don't have to use you to understand this menu, you know," she pointed out. She was clearly avoiding any hint of his compliment.

He chuckled and leaned back in the chair. He watched her watch the entrance whenever someone walked past the large windows.

"He's harmless, Lizzie," he said as he spoke of his contact. "He's merely the courier of the exchange."

"Having experience with The Courier was more than enough to make me somewhat skeptical they're all as innocent as they look," she said as she emphasized the title of Tommy Phelps.

"That courier is dead, remember," he noted.

She hummed and he watched the waiter bring their pot of tea and two cups.

Before she could ask another question, he was standing up and holding out a hand motioning to the other side of the table. She stood automatically following his lead.

"Marty," Red nodded.

"Red," the man nodded. "Who's this?"

"Elizabeth," Red supplied as they all sat.

Liz not so subtly assessed the man in front of her. He was skinny but seemingly built. His strawberry blond hair almost turning a yellow-orange stood out as he sat without a cap on in the chilled October air. Of course it wasn't too cold to be outside, a hat did help conserve a bit of heat.

"Luli's replacement?" the man asked. "I noticed Dembe in the corner."

Red's laugh startled her out of her reverie. But she didn't let it show to the man across from her. Red's arm once again moved to the back of her chair and she briefly smiled at the man across the table.

"Luli could never be replaced, Marty. No, she's a jack of all trades," Red said as he turned his head and grinned at Liz.

She returned the smile as she looked at him but then turned back to her assessment.

"She looks like a cop," Marty said as he looked over at Liz.

"I keep telling her that. She doesn't listen," Red laughs as he shakes his head at her.

"Shall we order? I'm famished," Red says as he leans back in his chair and puts a hand over his stomach.

Red ordered the soup of the day and the coq au vin; she ordered the risotto and would wait for a second course as a dessert option; Marty ordered the warm roquefort salad and the spinach and mushroom crèpes. While they waited, Red fixed tea for the two of them while Marty ordered a glass of wine. He added two sugar cubes to Liz's tea and passed it to her as he added one cube to his own.

"Are you sure you're not a cop?" Marty asked Liz.

Her only response was to take a sip of her tea. It was sweet and warmed her insides. Something she desperately needed even if she preferred coffee to tea. She briefly wished she should have joined Dembe. Perhaps then she'd at least get an espresso.

Their meals came and before she finished, Liz placed her order for her dessert. If Dembe's looked like the one she was getting, she was going to have a hard time keeping Red away from it.

"I'd, uh, I'd like to talk… in private," Marty said as he looked around the room and back to Liz.

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Lizzie," he said. "Think of her as a lawyer. Whatever you say is privileged information she can't share."

Marty tapped his fingers on the tabletop and leaned in. She and Red couldn't help but lean in as well.

"I'm sorry, Red," he whispered. "I didn't want to do it but they got me up on all these charges."

"What do they want?" Red asked as he worked his jaw once and stared the man down.

"They just want pictures of you," he shrugged. "They really want pictures of her. You missing?"

"Of sorts," Red nodded.

"They've got your hotel room bugged, they have people in the neighboring hotel. I stopped them from wiring me, claiming you'd kill me before I had a chance to even talk if you found a wire," Marty trailed off.

"Thank you, Marty," Red nodded.

"You know I'm good Red," he says.

"Thank you, Marty," Red repeats himself. He leans in towards her as he watches the man stand. Red made no motion to stand or even shake the man's hand. As he started pulling out bills, Red put his hand up.

"I've got it," Red tells him.

They watched his contact leave as the dark chocolate pot with crème fraîche was brought out.

It was progress that he was able to share the spoon. It also gave the person most likely watching them a nice roll of pictures.

"Are you going to kill him?" she asks as Dembe moves from his table to the seat Marty vacated.

"No," Red shrugged as he took the spoon from her fingers. The spoon tapped against his lips as he thought on the reason and she watched his lips. "He's a small fish. I'm sure the Egyptians would get to him first if he ratted on anyone."

She took the spoon back and he chuckled as she took her own spoonfuls.

"I don't kill all of my associates, Lizzie. Just the ones that betray my organization," he tells her.

* * *

She was beside him as he played solo chess when Dembe walked into the room with Hudson in tow. She was doing one of his crosswords, their shoulders brushing and Red's cheek pressing against her own when he leaned over and helped her with the answers between chess moves. Truthfully, he was being a nuisance and took pleasure in distracting her from thinking about the solutions. His nose occasionally brushed against her ear as he whispered the wrong words to the puzzle.

Dembe looked at the scene before him and hid the smile on his face but not in his tone as he greeted them. However, he did come with information for them.

"Raymond," he said. "Agent Ressler is in Liz's house."

"Cameras?" He asked as he looked to Dembe.

Dembe passed the iPad to Red and Liz looked over his shoulder to find her once-partner looking around her kitchen.

Dembe handed Red a phone and she watched him work his jaw as he assessed what the younger agent was doing.

"Let me talk to him," she said. She didn't know where it came from. But obviously Red had resigned himself to the fact and didn't seem phased by the statement.

He handed her the phone and gave her no explicit instructions. After all, she knew what she should and shouldn't reveal.

She wanted privacy and knew Red would respect that. She motioned for the bedroom with her head. She pressed a hand to his shoulder and vanished.

Instead of looking at Red's safe houses, he turned to Elizabeth Keen's own house. The house looked as if it was still being lived in as he picked the lock. When he closed the door he noticed a black hat on the hat and coat rack, a red measure mark sticking out of the ribbon that lined hat just before the brim. It must be a warning to whoever tried to make their way into Keen's house because he knew Reddington sure as hell wouldn't just leave any hat by itself unless it was a sign. He went through the rooms but didn't snoop through the drawers too much on account he didn't think he'd find anything new or a lead. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, if he was completely honest with himself.

As soon as he began to look around in the kitchen and saw nothing out of place and his phone began to ring, he knew who it was.

"What do you want?" he asked. He knew it would be Reddington. Meera and Aram were doing their own thing and Cooper knew he was out looking for safe houses.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

"Liz?" he asked.

He heard a little breathy laugh just barely distinguishable. She must have taken the phone away from her mouth.

"Don't be mad at me," she sighed at last.

Ressler frowned and sat at the barstool at her counter.

"Im not mad," he tried. "I'm…"

"Confused," she finished as he trailed off.

"Yeah," he nodded. Which was dumb, he reminded himself. She wasn't here to see him nod.

"What do you want to know?" she repeated.

"How?" he asked.

This time her laugh rang in his ears. It was light and breezy against the heavy question.

"I got on a plane and picked a destination," she said.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"You know I can't tell you that," she whispered.

"Why?" he wondered.

He could almost see it in his mind, her smile dropping from her face as the silence continued. He knew she knew he wasn't asking why she couldn't tell him where she was but rather why she chose Reddington.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I still don't know," she said finally.

"Keen, no one flies to wherever the hell you are on a whim with one of the FBI's most wanted because they don't know what they're doing," he told her.

When he received no answer, he knew he had to continue.

"Do you have feelings for this guy?"

"I… could," she started. "I could love him, in time, I think. I hardly know him other than his files and the past that the letter agencies have written up on him."

He sighed. Loud enough for her not to miss it.

"Buy the whole book before you make the decision, Liz," he tells her.

"Please, don't be mad," Liz says. "I know you know think I've been a traitor all along but something happened. I... I can't describe it."

"Stockholm Syndrome?" he wonders.

She laughs.

"No," she says. "He's not keeping me captive. If anything, he's worried about me being with him and becoming compromised."

"Liz," Ressler says finally after the line crackles and skips. "Cooper's looking for you."

"I know," she tells him. "I know."

"At least keep me in the loop?" he asks. "Not all the time. But... you know?"

She licks her lips and bows her head.

"I don't want to compromise you," she says. "You could be aiding and abetting if they know you even made this conversation and didn't report it."

"Keep me in the loop and I won't come after Reddington," he jokes.

He laughs a little. And she can sense the conversation is winding down.

He once wanted to capture Reddington because he thought this man was a dishonor and disgrace to his country. But the longer he worked on the blacklist, the more he changed his mind. They were never close and he rarely trusted Liz in the beginning but he learned to trust her and she trusted Reddington. So, obviously she knew something he did not.

"When I can," she finally promises.

"Okay," he nods to himself. "Stay safe, Liz."

"You, too," she whispers.

She hung up the burner phone and closed her eyes as one of his arms wrapped around her waist and the other around the hand that held the phone.

"How much did you hear?" she asked as she leaned against the railing.

"Not much," he told her as he looked down to the street and the view past the buildings surrounding them.

"He's going to compromise himself," she whispers.

"Donald knows how to stay above our gray line, Lizzie," he tells her.

"You don't think he's going to go to Cooper?" she asks as she turns in his arms.

She looks at his face, assessing what he won't tell her aloud. His green eyes tell her what she doesn't want to know and what she needs to know all at the same time.

"I'm not the only one who has a soft spot for you, Elizabeth Keen," he tells her. The smile on his face is sad and happy at the same time. He has her affection while another man thousands of miles away willingly compromises himself because he calls her a friend and perhaps even grew to like her as something more. His fingers trace her collarbone and she closes her eyes. But just as faint as it feels, it disappears.

"I need to go," she tells him. She opens her eyes and watches his fall to the space between them. She quickly amends her statement. "I just need to be alone. To think."

"At least take Hudson?" he asks.

Her fingers skim his jaw and her lips touch his for the briefest of moments.

He watches as Hudson is happily put on his lead. He doesn't miss when she wraps his scarf around her neck nor the fedora return to its new home on her head. His fingers twitch against his leg and she opens the hotel room door and looks back at him once before the door shuts.

* * *

She's spent hours in the little park where Marcel Proust has his own tiny street named after him. She just sits on the park bench and stares at the people milling back and forth without really watching.

When she does return, she knocks on the door because she forgot the key to the hotel and she's not sure she can even get the key in the lock because she's perhaps stayed out too long watching the occasional teenager run around in costume around her.

"Lizzie," he whispered. By his tone, he half expected her not to come back. As if she would run back and leave him without a word. He unhooks Hudson's collar and the dog zones in for his food and water bowls in the kitchen.

Suddenly, she's reaching for him and he's warm all over where her nose seems to be half frozen and she's sniffling trying to adjust to the new temperature. There's not many lights on despite the dwindling hour. If she wasn't so chilled perhaps she'd reflect on it, add it to her ever growing and shifting profile of Raymond Reddington. He's got his fedora on a hat rack, his scarf joins it and he is lightly undoing the buttons of her coat when she finally snaps back to reality.

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he pulls her coat open.

"No," she chatters. "Just a little chilly."

He opens his mouth to ask a question or perhaps make a statement but his eyes convey much more than his words can ever say. He's glad she's back and she steps forward as soon as he places her coat back on the hanger.

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his own. She nipped at his lower lip completely on accident-she's not sure she can really feel her lips as they get used to the warm room again-but he made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat and she took that as a sign she shouldn't break off and apologize for what had just happened. He was pulling back from her so she lifted her arm, her hand passing over her shoulder and skimming the nape of his neck. One of his arms wrapped around her waist and then pressed her closer when she refused to allow him to break away. Her touch was fleeting at his jawline as she cupped the back of his head and scratched with her nails at the closely cropped hair and he bumped into the doorknob of the closet. One of his hands shot behind him to steady himself and hers followed, brushing along his waist and reaching down. Her hand brushed along his backside, steadying at his waistband at the small of his back. His hand fumbled at the door and she released their lips so he could look at her.

As she did so, he looked at her with a multitude of questions lingering in his eyes.

She always knew it had to be her choice. She had to come to him. He had already confessed his feelings, his wants, his desires. She was the one who remained uncertain and ambivalent yet willing to respond if he started it. Yet he drew the line. Unnoticeable to her at first. And then she had kissed him in the hall. And that's when things began to change a bit: his touch lingered more, his eyes always watching her form. She could feel the heat of his gaze even if she wasn't looking.

"I choose this," she whispered. "I choose you."

With the whispered consent he carefully leads her just down the hall and opens the door to his room. It was much like her own room just down the hall. But somehow seemed more inviting. She ignored the room as he kissed her once more.

His touch was contagious. He was seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. She laughed against his skin as he attempted to unzip her dress as he kissed down her throat. Everywhere he seemed to touch burned as if her blood was boiling underneath her skin despite the actual chilled extremities.

As he works his way exposing both her skin to the warmed air of the bedroom and his hot mouth, she can't help the shiver that runs down her spine and unconsciously moves through her. Her chilled hands slowly but surely unbutton his dress shirt and fumble with his pants. It's certainly not the most romantic escapade but she's pleasing him enough he lets her know with each nip of her exposed skin as he moves her to the bed in the middle of the room.

She thinks that maybe she longs for the security of his touch, anxious about her decision. But it is a decision and she's made it and she's not regretting any moment. When she begins to worry her lip with anticipation once all garments are free and they are quite literally exposed to one another, he kisses her so soft she thinks he thinks she may be a dream or an apparition. They break eye contact once or twice only to find a steady, sure rhythm and Red's fingers are quite busy touching everything and nothing all at once.

"Please," she whispers against the shell of his ear as he adjusts himself above her.

Red lowers his own lips and brushes his cheek against her own as he whispers his love for her. The pooling heat in her belly suddenly is too much and she's never been loud or one for theatrics but he can feel her and hears the quiet cry from her lips. And that's enough for him, kissing her thoroughly as he's desperate for more contact with any part of her as his own wave of pleasure crashes over him.

She wasn't sure if she was in love with him as much as he was with her at this point but she couldn't run and hide anymore.

She was falling for Raymond Reddington.


	4. Chapter 4

He was sleeping peacefully as she curled in close to him. One of her arms was thrown about his middle, fingers curled into the sheet that covered them. As she lay her head between his shoulder and collar bone, listening to his heart beating rhythmically underneath her, his fingers curled into her hair. She awoke automatically; still not used to the relative quiet of the suite in the quiet morning of the outskirts of Paris. She peeked over him and then reminded herself there was no clock in the room save for Red's watch-a watch that was situated on the nightstand across from her. She leaned up and over him, and his hand dropping from her hair woke him from his slumber. She read the time, squinting to make sure she read it right, and sighed as she moved back across him to her side of the bed.

He stopped her as she made to escape his bed. As she lifted up on one arm, resting her upper body against his own, he dragged his fingers through her hair. He leans back further into his pillow, radiating comfort and laziness in one fell swoop.

"Good morning," he tells her.

"We should get up," she responds.

He hums. She thinks he hums in the negative, and brushes one of his fingers against the shell of her ear as he drags his fingers through her hair again.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because Dembe will be back soon," she tries to counter. "I should go; go back to my own room and get dressed."

"I don't think he'll mind," Red tells her. "In fact, he might think his work here is done."

Before she can think of a counterclaim he has claimed her mouth with his own. His fingers brush the nape of her neck and she sighs into the kiss. Its not the most romantic nor the most appealing of kisses she's ever received from him but there is something there that keeps her occupied. Her own hand gets lost in the fray of his limbs as he rolls her back over so he's settled half atop her now. Her fingers graze his scalp and purrs as if he's a domestic cat getting a thorough scratching. He moves his exploration from her mouth to her neck. The long lines and pale skin begs to be nipped by him as he trails his way down her body in an effort to make her forget she wanted to leave his bed in the first place.

When he fishes the sheets from around her, she knows she's lost all hope of winning their pseudo argument. He told her last night that unlike film and television it gets rather stifling when one has sheets surrounding them as they try to please their partner. She thinks he also might get his kicks from seeing her expression as he explores every inch of her. The grin he gives her as he makes his way down the bed, kissing, sucking, nibbling any exposed flesh, makes her certain this is going to become a new morning routine-and one she should get used to having.

True to form, Dembe knocks in two succinct knocks and Red sighs. She laughs and tucks the sheets around her.

"He did take Hudson for his morning run," she noted.

Typically, she and Red took the morning and evening strolls with Hudson and left afternoon ones to Dembe. But Dembe had lost at chess and the man had to take all the walks save the evening ones with Hudson this week. And this morning-day one of the bet-she had finally figured out why Red and been pleased to win the bet.

He slipped into his sleep pants and his robe before he walked back to her side. She was looking up at him with a small smile playing on her lips.

"We're meeting the contact today. We can all do lunch. We'll even bring Hudson. Surely he likes snow."

"He's like a little kid, can't get enough of it," she confesses.

He presses his lips to her forehead and she sighs as she watches him leave the room. She's sure she should at least take a shower if they're to meet their contact but he had left her half wanting and has always finished what he started. And she was sure if his look was anything to go by, he wasn't quite finished with her yet.

* * *

Meera Malik has always had a great deal of respect for Raymond Reddington after he helped her out of more than one set of sticky situations. But he was technically and always will be a traitor for selling classified information so she can't help the fact that Cooper demanded-off the books, of course- that she ask her contacts to look for Reddington, and she had found him in London. Of course she told the man to come clean to Reddington and perhaps wanting just a picture of the meeting would spare the life of the contact. After all, no one really lived to tell about crossing Reddington, except for maybe her. But even then, she was innocent in the double agent/mole dealings. The fact that he had spared her was the only reason why she had sat on this information for a month. She's sure that Cooper would have wanted the information right away but she wanted to make sure Reddington and Keen had left the area for sure before she had turned the information in. She just hoped one of the three of the "fugitives" had figured out the set up.

"Sir," she said as she knocked on Harold Cooper's door.

"Come in," he nodded.

"I think you're going to want to see this," she told him. She handed over the single piece of paper in her hand, a single picture.

Harold Cooper rubbed at his brow as he set the picture down in front of him. He now had definitive proof his agent was with Reddington. Of course all her access codes had been revoked the moment she disappeared and he had a hunch as to who she disappeared with. But now he had to go to the committee and figure out what the hell he was going to do now.

"I did a digital analysis, the full works. It hasn't been doctored or anything. They're meeting one of Reddington's Egyptian contacts. There's little chatter on that side because few on our side have gotten in since the civil wars there but I'm trying to see where they are going. Probably somewhere without an extradition treaty if Liz has joined in."

"Thank you," he nodded. "Do not inform Ressler or anyone else about this development. I'll alert them when I know what to do."

"Got it," Meera nodded.

As he stared at the picture, he wondered what signs he had missed and when they had gotten this close. His agent looked quite comfortable in the arms of the man she once seemed to despise. But then, was all of that just an act? Reddington had always known more than what Keen's background checks had said. Her father had been a career criminal and the FBI had missed that simple piece of information. He started to feel his migraine returning.

* * *

When she awoke to a cool set of sheets beside her, she knew she had overslept and slept hard that night. She had obviously stolen the sheets since an extra blanket was where he usually slept and she seemed to be wrapped in most of them in a tangled heap. The morning sun was streaming through the curtains as she leaned down over his side of the bed and slipped on his dress shirt she had carelessly tossed on the floor last night. As she slipped out of the bed and to the bureau to find some undergarments to wear, he walked into the room and paused.

"Morning," he greeted.

"Morning," she parroted. She looked over at him and noticed he was still in his robe and his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he took her in. Obviously he wasn't planning on doing much today. Whenever he had the glasses on, she knew it would be a quiet day. She rubbed at her temples as she held her undergarments in her hand and he watched her carefully.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Headache," she noted. "I'll be fine after a shower."

He nodded and she felt his stare until she disappeared from his view. He didn't miss the fact she left the lights off in the bathroom, letting the whispered streams of natural light come in and light the room instead.

She thought the reasons for her migraines might have been the changes she's made: the time zones, the altitudes, the food, and lack of sleep. They weren't debilitating, just came on and off as she occasionally watched television, read a book, or when she was trying to fall asleep. But after more than two full months in the Parisian city she was more than accustomed to the time and altitude.

And then her fruit she ate for breakfast started to taste strange, almost fishy. When she tried switching to other foods-buttered toast, croissants, danishes-they began to smell and taste fishy as well. Then her water started to taste like fish. She didn't even want to think about the smell. It's like a raw filet of salmon followed her everywhere she went. Just thinking about the foods themselves made her want to heave.

She had asked Dembe and Red at separate times if they tasted or smelled same thing but neither could taste the fishy aftertaste. Red was quiet after the line of questioning; Dembe seemed amused and concerned at the same time.

Then, as soon as it started, it stopped. Her food and water were back to normal and she thought nothing of it.

Another quiet night in the suite had found her watching the television as she lay on the couch. She was half dozing when Red with Hudson in tow, came back into the room. She had felt queasy all day which was why he had walked Hudson alone tonight.

"What can I do?" he asked as he looked down at her.

Hudson looked ready to jump on top of her on the couch but refrained as Red told him no.

"Sit with me?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, meek. As if asking would make her want him sit in the single chair Dembe preferred to use.

He nodded and he pointed to the room as he went and changed his clothes and readied himself for bed. When he came back into the room, she sat up on the couch. When he sat and made himself comfortable, she moved back down and rested her head in his lap. His hand moved to her hair and began to massage her scalp. It felt like heaven. She closed her eyes and breathes him in. The scent of the cold December night still lingered as did his faint aftershave. Somehow the two smells calmed her queasy stomach and she sighed.

"Did you eat?" he asked quietly.

"God, no," she whispered.

"On our walk we got some crackers," he said as he watched the news she had on. "When you're up for it."

"I'm not up for much," she told him.

His free hand rubbed her shoulder and she grabbed his hand with her own. She tucked his arm beneath her own and clasped his hand in the both of hers. His knuckles brushed her lips as she brought their clasped hands to her lips and he closed his own eyes.

He simply focuses on feeling the tension leave her body as he continues to rub his fingers gently across her head and the back of her neck.

When he hears the familiar breathing pattern and her fingers slack on the hold of his hand, he knows she's succumbed to sleep. He's going to have a pain in his neck as he stays like this, but he doesn't want to wake her.

When they were out to breakfast on the rare day she was up before him, she asked for ice in her water. Which was strange because she had gotten used to no ice water anywhere. But then she started using the ice water to chew on the ice. Red had told her he once read a study where chewing ice was a sign of iron deficiency. And then he told her she looked a little more exhausted than usual these days and suggests she eats some oatmeal like he does. Dembe had chuckled as she frowned and turned to face him rather than the man at her side.

But the fishy smell and taste was back a few weeks later and she sighed. When Red and Dembe went out to play chess in the outdoor gardens-before he was stuck inside again-she stole his iPad he rarely used and began to search the web. As she got further and further into her research she felt more and more peakish. She erased the cookies and browsing history from the past hour and put it back in his tightly packed duffle bag. She really needed to get out and get some fresh air. Calling for Hudson, she slipped on one of her coats and met the two downstairs in the gardens.

Red looked at her as she came out over the top of his rose-colored glasses and nodded to Dembe.

They were just outside in the park a little ways away from the airport. After three months, they were leaving France and headed to the unknown. As they walked and talked of where they should head next, Red said he'd buy a globe and make her spin it and stick her finger on a location and they'd go there. When she didn't laugh, like he thought she would, he looked over to Dembe. The other man shrugged and suggested they go to the park.

Red feigns interest in the newspaper he had yet to read as they pass by a stand and Liz takes the opportunity to continue on with Dembe. She's tied up for a brief moment as Hudson refuses to leave Red's side. Red simply waves for the leash and promises to buy the dog a treat and tells them to continue on; he'll catch up eventually.

They head into the park and disappear from his vantage point at the cart.

"Can we sit?" she asks.

Dembe nods and directs her to a more secluded area. It's away from Red-who has finally joined them in the park-but they can still see him as he enjoys his espresso and newspaper in the chilled sunshine. She can't help but smile as Hudson lies beside Red's chair, ever the furry friend to the otherwise lonely man. He waits for her to start; looking at her as she looks over at Red. She turns and begins.

"Have you…" she trails off and bites her lip. "Have you ever seen him with children?"

A brief smile comes to Dembe's lips and he nods.

"My nieces and nephews love Raymond," he tells her. "The whole village does. He saved them all. As did you, Elizabeth."

She frowns at the information that she saved people she had never met and he continues. She remembers Red telling her about Dembe's nieces briefly, a few months ago, but thought nothing of it until now.

"The Eberhardt Cartel would snatch children from the streets of my village. In my day, they took girls and boys. Floriana was the one to change it to only girls and young women. When we sent news of Floriana's death and the destruction of the Eberhardt Cartel to my people, there were many gifts sent, parties, a fireworks display at the end of the week. They pray for you and Raymond, in my village; they give thanks to the people who stopped their nightmares. My nieces and nephews no longer have to fear being taken."

Her eyes water and she sniffs a few times, blaming it on the changing weather-one day it snows the next its mild and sunny. She rubs at her nose and clears her throat as she speaks.

"You have family?" she asks. Of course everyone has a family, she chastised herself. Well, not her; not really. Suddenly she's learning quite a bit about Dembe.

"Five brothers and sisters make for a medium sized family in my village," he nods. "But I do not have a wife or children, if that is what you ask. This job is too dangerous for a wife or child."

Liz nods. She does have to agree with his point.

"He does not speak of his past to me but I can sense a deep regret within him about what happened to his family," Dembe tells her quietly. "He destroyed the house he raised his daughter in. Too many memories of what happened there."

A sense of dread hit her and she turned pale.

"Are you okay, Elizabeth?" Dembe asked. He stayed in his seat and kept his hands to himself because he didn't want to alert the man he knew was watching despite being meters away and feigning nonchalance.

"I wish I knew," she sighed.

"Raymond and I must meet a contact later this afternoon to create false flight plans. There is a chemist two blocks away from the hotel. I can leave you bills rather than use his card."

She nods and reaches across the small table to place her hand on his forearm.

"Thank you, Dembe," she nods.

"I only hope you find answers you are looking for, Elizabeth," he says.

She gives him a half smile. She's not really sure what she's looking for. And as she looks over across the park, she's not sure about his reaction, one way or the other.

* * *

While Dembe and Red met their contact, Liz and Hudson roamed the streets near the hotel. It wasn't that she wasn't allowed out-she was-but she preferred to go out with Red or Dembe or both of them. They knew the city; Red knew the language. She wondered if he knew German. At least she'd be able to hold her own there. But then of course he probably did. He probably knew a little of each language out there.

From her high school French class, she remembers hints of the word for the little corner stores. She resorted to looking around in the windows to be sure though. She found the store and looked around for a tree or post to tie Hudson up. It suddenly felt like it was a bad idea to bring him to this outing but she needed something familiar around. When she looked a few doors down, a grooming store caught her attention. Hudson needed it. Looking down at the dog and not wanting to leave him outside for fear he'd make friends with everyone and he'd be taken, she made up her mind that he'd get groomed while she ducked into the pharmacy.

She didn't understand any of the French but the man seemed to take pity on her and speak English to her. She told the man she'd be back in a few minutes to wait for her dog since she apparently wasn't supposed to leave. The man agreed and Hudson was handed off, as well as Red's credit card, and she was off back down the street.

She entered the store and looked at the low aisles. Unlike the American stores that had shelves higher than a person's height, this little store seemed to think everyone was only five feet tall. It reminded her of 7/11's or any other gas station convenience store. At least it gave her the option of scanning the store for what she was looking for rather than going down aisle by aisle, looking like she would rob the place.

She quickly found what she was looking for and turned the boxes over, hoping for at least one to have directions in English. However, none did and she cursed her luck. She looked at the various ones and sighed. Going with the one that had two tests looked like her best option for the amount of money Dembe left her. Quickly purchasing the box, she made her way back down to the groomers again to wait for Hudson.

The bag felt like a lead weight as it sat on her lap. She rubbed at her scar with her thumb, hoping the familiar action would sooth her. It was far from soothing when she closed her eyes and remembers Red always seems to trail a finger down her wrist and trace the burn pattern. He makes it feel like a badge of honor rather than a dark memory. She clasps her hands together and slumps a little in her chair. But then she brings her clasped hands to her waist and she immediately sits up straight and fiddles with the paper bag instead. Just as soon as she thinks she's about to crack, Hudson and the man who she found was actually the groomer, come out from the back.

"Merci," she nods as she takes Hudson's lead from the man.

He bids her goodbye and she's suddenly less anxious.

She hides the bag in her room-the one Hudson uses to sleep in because he believes he deserves a little comfort and if his owner isn't using the bed, then he will. She doesn't know why Red insists on still booking a two room suite but she goes with it. Best not to question his logic, she thinks. She looks at herself in the mirror above the bureau and tries to smile but found she's too nervous to do anything but frown in worry. She goes into the bedroom where she and Red reside and fixes her hair and washes her face with cool water, hoping to put a bit of color back in her cheeks.

She wonders if Hudson senses her apprehension as he becomes a furry shadow to her. When she picks a book from Red's stack by the bedside and comes back to the living room and slumps into a corner of the couch, Hudson lets himself up. His head comes to rest on her stomach and she wants to cry, maybe. Instead she opens her book and pats his head before beginning to read. She finds the book utterly boring and sighs, tossing the book on the table beside her. She stretches out on the couch and Hudson stretches out, too. She rubs at his newly groomed fur and he seems to sigh happily. They both fall asleep soon enough.

She hears the door open sometime later and Red's voice rang out through the room as he speaks to Dembe before closing it. She watches sleepily as he moves towards her.

"Afternoon nap?" He asks with a small chuckle.

She hums and smiles as his eyes roam Hudson's form. He was taking up the rest of the couch she hadn't been taking up.

"Found a groomer then?" Red asks.

"We were bored," she said as she moved her hands over Hudson's newly groomed fur.

She watches as Red takes off his coat and suit jacket. He folds them over the single chair and tosses the fedora on the cushion. He turns back to the couch and notices Hudson hasn't moved an inch.

She smiles inwardly as he takes note of the scene before him. Hudson's refused to leave her side and doesn't even get up from the couch until Red tells him off.  
Red takes Hudson's place and sits beside her. She attempts to sit up but he waves her off and she goes back to being comfortable. He tilts his head and leans further into the couch. He unbuttons his vest and sighs. Her legs move up and over his and he places his hand on her denim clad thighs. His fingers traced a pattern of his own design around her knee.

"How was your day?" She asked.

"Fine," he sighed. He rubbed his forehead and looked over at her. "Have you decided where in the world you would like to travel to next? Anywhere in the world unless you say Morocco, India, or China because we've made flight patterns through those three countries. I believe they would think we're heading somewhere with no extradition treaty with the US."

"Why would we be doing that?" she asks. She feels a migraine coming on as she notices his jaw clench.

"I did get some interesting information out of the exchange," he tells her as if he's skipping over her question. "More than I usually get out of this particular contact."

"Oh?" She wondered. She rubs her temple as he removes her legs and gracefully slides out from under them.

He stands and pulls a piece of paper out of his jackets inner pocket and unfolded it. Turning back to the couch he shows her the paper.

"I told you I was going to make you famous, Lizzie," he said.

She took the piece of paper from his hands and looked down at it. She expected it, maybe. She did in the back of her mind at least. She frowned at the bottom of the paper:  _Elizabeth Scott Keen, a former member of the US Federal Bureau of Investigation is wanted for aiding crimes against the government and home and abroad. Considered armed and extremely dangerous._  She was officially on the FBI's Most Wanted List.

"Do you think it was naïve of me to think it would be because I captured you and the rest of the wanted list rather than get on it myself?" she asked.

She traces the pictures of herself in her mind. She knows she's more recognizable than Red. If they're going to run, she has to tell him. Surely he'd want to know as opposed to keeping this secret. She hears his footfalls and looks up as he starts to vacate the area. Tossing the wanted poster on the table next to the abandoned book, she rises from the couch.

"You must leave," Red told her. He left the living room area and she quickly followed as he moved to the kitchen and showed her a file on the counter. "I have prepared a folder for you. It has evidence that you have never participated in any of my crimes; a letter from me to Harold; and a letter to my contact in justice. They will arrest you but they will take my word and let you go. They will remove you from the list."

"What? Why?" she asked. "Why must I leave?"

He got that look in his eyes again. The one she had now seen a lot but the one that first started after their very first "fight." The one she had seen outside Frederick Barnes's crime scene.

"This isn't right. You're not... yourself here. You deserve to be happy, Lizzie. This lifestyle... it is chipping away at you."

She looked up at him, blinking her eyes that were filled with unshed tears. She opened her mouth a few times to give him an answer, anything, but nothing came out.

Suddenly she laughed and it seemed hollow. He had rarely heard this laugh from her. He certainly never had it directed at his person before.

"I think I might be pregnant," she whispers.

His head whips to face hers and he's not sure if he heard it right.

"What?" He asked. His voice was shaky, nervous. His hands twitched at his side in a nervous tick.

She looked him in the eye this time. Her blue eyes met his green and she sighed. She held her gaze as she repeated her words.

"I think I might be pregnant."

He bit the inside of his lower lip and his hand grazed the countertop. His thumb twitched and he held his ground. Suddenly he wanted to rescind his offer but since it was on the table he couldn't take it back; wouldn't take it back. Perhaps if she left her life might be better and any potential child she may have would certainly have a better life without him. His first wife and child were proof of that much. Hell, he still had no concrete idea what happened to them. The long road to find that out would forever be his life's work.

Her hand gripped his forearm and he was suddenly sitting in one of the chairs by the window of the breakfast nook in their hotel room. She vanished from his side and returned a moment later with a bottle of water. Uncapping it, she thrust it into his hand and he drank it automatically. He looked up to find her brow furrowed with worry.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"I don't know what to do," she told him. "I... I have a test but I can't read the directions because they're all in French and..."

She trails off. She breathes in and stops herself before she starts to panic again.

"Where is it?" He asked.

She goes into the bedroom and pulls out the paper bag that was in a drawer of the bureau. She takes it out of the bag and flips it back and forth in her hands just to make sure there were no English directions. Satisfied it wasn't just her delusional, panicking mind, she returns to the kitchen and hands the box over to Red.  
He's composed himself in the few minutes she was gone. His suit vest is buttoned and tucked back in order, his tie straight under his vest, his sleeves and cuffs are rolled up in neat order.

She's quiet as he reads. She sits down in the chair next to him and stares at the table.

He chuckles suddenly and she looks up at him with a confused look on her face.

"It says it must be done in the morning," he says. He recites the French directions and then translates it word for word to her.

Her face falls and she laughs because she doesn't want to cry and leans down, putting her forehead on the table. The wood is cool against her flushed skin. She feels his hands move to her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, scratching at her scalp in all the right places. She turns toward him, her cheek now on the cool wood table and he's tilting his head in order to get the best view of her. One hand still rests on her head and he pulls his chair closer.

"I'm scared," she whispers. She didn't plan on this. They didn't plan on this. Certainly not this quick if she had lingering thoughts of children still from her failed adoption thoughts with Tom. If it was even a this. God. They now had to wait until the morning to figure it out.

"Me too," he told her honestly.

He stared at her for a while. She was sure he was starting to get a crick in his neck when he spoke again.

"If you wish to leave, I certainly won't stop you," he tells her. "I don't have the best track record keeping people I love alive."

Her head rises from the table-she's sure she has table marks on the side of her face but she feels like this conversation should be had when she's sitting up fully.

"I am not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of being with you," she said. She used his words against him. Maybe he half deserved it. A verbal slap in the face.

"My crimes will become your crimes," he reminded her again.

"My father was a career criminal," she told him. "Why not continue the family business."

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't say that. Don't…you are not your father. This is not a family business."

"And if you're a father?" She asks. The  _again_  was tacked on in both of their minds, but went unsaid.

"Then I will do everything in my power to keep the both of you safe," he tells her.

"I don't want to do this alone," she pleads. "We deserve a second chance, don't we?"

He thinks of his wife and his daughter. The time he did get to spend with them were some of the best moments of his life. His heart had been light and carefree, his spirit lifted, and the hard work of his Navy career was worth it each time he came home to find his daughter waiting on the porch to read to him or show him how good she was at bubbles and chalk. He hadn't known who his enemies were then and it had cost him his family. Now he had a backup plan just in case he ever died. The world would burn; cease to exist if his enemies touched him. After his revenge on Luli's death, he had included Lizzie into the deal. If she was indeed pregnant, their child must also be protected. The ones who had taken his first family would not take his second.

He nodded. His jaw locked as he opened his mouth to answer. He simply nodded again and bowed his head. His hand brushed against hers and he got up.

She tried to give him a reassuring smile but she fell short as he silently questioned her.

A few seconds later, she hears the hotel room door close.

Late that night, she had it made up in her mind that he wouldn't touch her let alone sleep in the same bed as her until whenever they knew the answer. But he defied her thoughts and as she lay in the bed listening to the city beneath the hotel room's slightly open french doors that led to the balcony overhang: he and Hudson came into the room. He looked over at her and moved to the en suite washroom as he readied himself for bed. The dog's collar jingled with each step and he patiently lies on the floor on Red's side as the man climbed into bed himself. He lies on his side and waited until she looked at him before speaking.

"You switched beds," he said quietly.

"I didn't think..." She trailed off.

"That I'd want you in my bed?" He finished.

Her eyes lower and he takes that as an affirmative answer.

"Lizzie, I will always want you. Never doubt that," he says.

She nods and quietly whispers her okay. Her voice is low but he still hears the crack in it. She tries to hide it but he catches the sniffle.

He wraps an arm around her middle and pulls her close. Her arm wraps loosely around him and he sighs into her hair as her cold nose touches his heated skin. His hand moves up and down in a rhythmic motion to put her at ease. It also relaxes him, the steady motion almost putting them both to sleep after an emotional afternoon.

"If we are," she whispers against his neck, her breath warm and comforting. "Would you make me stay at home?"

She feels his chin move as he attempts to pull away to look at her but she keeps herself slightly hidden from his all-knowing eyes.

"I think no one could ever keep you from doing what you want to do, Lizzie," he tells her. His hands moves from her shoulder and skims her arm until the end of her elbow where she holds him and he then moves to her back. "I, for one, would love paternity leave."

She laughs. Its quiet but he can feel the rumble against his skin, feels it as her body releases some of the tension it has.

"It's a dangerous world," he tells her. "You know the sort I deal with and of the top handful, only Anslo Garrick's blood has been spilled."

"Why did you want me to leave?" she asks.

She can feel him tense now. She runs her own fingers across his back and presses herself closer.

"Because I don't want to lose you, too." he says. "I've spent years waiting for you, Lizzie. You've been the only one who could ever see past all the masks and facades; the glitz and the glamor; the suits and the charades. I thought that maybe if you left you would be happier. Because despite what you hope and believe, I am still a monster. I will always do anything to protect you Lizzie. And now... a child? They have already taken one family away from me. I can't risk them taking you... taking another from me. I can't even properly protect you because I still have no idea what really happened to them."

She pulls back and notices when she tries to look at him, he looks away. He tries to cast himself in the shadows of the night and she won't have it.

"That's why I have to stay," she whispers. "You are quite redeeming when I'm around, you know."

"Unfortunately, you do make me want to appeal to your good side," he mumbles.

She presses her lips against his for the briefest of moments and shimmies back to rest in his arms again. But she turns so they spoon rather than lie face to face. She closes her eyes and hums as he nestles his chin on her shoulder; his fingers skim her shorts and she doesn't miss the fact his hand pauses and finds its resting place on her stomach. His fingers splay out and his pinkie dips below her waistband to secure his position. One of his legs tosses itself over her two and she sighs sleepily. One of her hands moves to rest next to the one that covers her stomach. She really does like it best when she's enveloped completely in his warmth; how he simply curls himself into her. He's a very tangible person and loves to touch her at any available opportunity-but especially here in the quiet, stillness of the bedroom. His thumb rubbing against her stomach is the only certain proof she has that he's not asleep yet, despite the emotionally exhaustive afternoon they've had.

"I'm going to hire another person for security," he tells her. Before she protest, he continues. "We will live quietly until it is safe but what I do for a living only makes our lives more dangerous if we aren't on alert. There are individuals, even factions, who want to kill me. I've toppled government, started wars. I'm a dangerous man. They call me the Concierge of Crime for a reason."

"Who?" she asks. The FBI must have tabs on the other three they didn't choose the first time around. So, he was left with very little options. She knew he didn't place a lot of trust in just anybody.

"You're not protesting?" He asked. His brow furrowed. He was sure she would take some offense to his suggested plan.

"I've read all your files; I had a correct profile of you one week into meeting each other. I know the blacklist is ultimately to find out and get revenge on what truly happened to your wife and daughter as well as take down the true criminals of the world. You wouldn't be you if you weren't overly careful this time around."

"Thank you, Lizzie," he says quietly.

She wants to point out that maybe it's all just in her head but she thinks she knows it isn't. She feels as if she's been having an out of body experience without even realizing it. And she thinks he knows its a real possibility by all the contingency plans he's had that seem far less off the cuff than she's really expected.

His thoughts kept him up until the wee hours of the morning. She fell asleep, finally, when he began to make soothing, rhythmic patters along her skin.

The next morning, she woke before him but as she got out of bed, trying to be silent, his hand stilled her as it settled on her wrist. He spoke in a whispered voice, reaching for the nightstand and slipping on his glasses and adjusting the black frames before he reads the directions once completely only to repeat it to her as they walk from the bed to the washroom.

He hands her the box and stands in the middle of the room as she tears at the box and pulls out one package. She catches his eye in the mirror and tears quietly into the packaging in her hands. When she has the stick in her hands, he stands there like some kind of idiot until she clears her throat.

"Right," he shakes his head as he comes back to himself and turns to head just outside the door, closing it as he steps away from the threshold.

He stood outside the door as she peed on the stick. He listened to the water from the taps as she washed her hand. The door then opened and she walked out, wringing her hands.

He moves in and brushes past her into the washroom, only making a half ass attempt at shutting the door. He looked to find the stick on a strip of toilet paper on the counter next to the toilet as he lifts the seat and releases a breath, pointedly ignoring the test in order to take care of his morning business. As he finishes washing his hands, he opens the door and finds she has her eyes glued his watch. He figures she must have taken it from the nightstand.

It was perhaps the longest few minutes of their lives. Her fingers grabbed for his as he cleared his throat, unable to speak that it was time. His fingers tightened his grip on hers and he felt her gain just a bit more confidence as they walked towards the test. They peered at the stick and then he grabbed the box and he read the results directions aloud.

She bit her lip and turned towards him.

"So," she said. Her voice was horse from lack of use and perhaps emotion.

"I think it's time to show you our house," he says. "Hudson will absolutely adore it. Open spaces, gentle slopes of green grass, bushes, and trees; and a little private beach just a few hundred meters away."

She can't help but laugh as she tries to appeal to the dog that isn't even in the room with him.

"Perhaps you and the baby would like it, too," he notes.

He laughs nervously as she starts to cry and he wraps his arms around her. She wraps her arms around his torso and slumps against the warmth he radiates. In the early morning light streaming through the linen curtains in the bathroom, she never looked so beautiful.

Perhaps they'll hide out for however long until she has the baby. If there's one thing he does know for sure, its that Fitch and the rest of the blacklist have no idea where he resides when he wants to escape the everyday life he lives. But she knows he still needs to be vigilant and keep up appearances. So maybe it will just be her and Hudson and the new security occasionally while he and Dembe keep up their criminal enterprising.

"Where is this house?" She asks. She thinks he'd probably have it here in France or maybe Italy or even Germany. But his answer surprised her.

"Portugal," he says. He taps her on the nose and smiles. "Just wait until you see the light through the windows there."

* * *

He hadn't heard a thing from Keen or Reddington in a while. Which wasn't surprising but he found the silence to be unnerving. Cooper was clearly keeping him out of the loop on something and he couldn't tell what it was about. He could only assume it was something on Keen. As he climbed the few steps to his apartment building and unlocked the door, moving to his mailbox slot, he found a manilla envelope is stuffed in the small box. The red writing at the return address makes him suspect the mailer is familiar and the address is fake.

He walks on autopilot to his apartment, staring at the envelope and pointedly ignoring any other mail that happened to be in the box. When he reaches the kitchen counter, he sets the mail on the granite countertop and rips open the envelope. He opens it and a single picture is in the envelope.

He can't tell the location of where she is because the only thing in the background is massive green shrubbery. But if the return address is anything to go by, it's Paris. He smiles sadly at the picture when he notices she's got one of Red's hats on her head and most likely one of his scarfs wrapped around her neck. She has one hand on her hat and she's half looking up at the sky. Her free hand holds a dog leash and he can see the mess of fur in the bottom corner of the picture. He can tell by the ground it's snowing. Faintly, like a shadow, he can see Reddington behind her. Watching and seemingly unaware there is a camera pointed in his direction. Or perhaps he was too mesmerized by the sight of Keen to care if a camera was pointed at him. She seems happy with her life; he now has proof.

He's of course had proof she's been with him since the phone call. The first initial phone call with Reddington, really. But then she had called and promised to keep him in the loop. By him receiving this picture, it was a way of keeping him in the loop without totally compromising him with phone call logs. His thoughts drift to Cooper and his strange behavior. He knew the assistant director was looking for proof of Keen's involvement. He held the photo in his hand and tapped the edge on the counter once, twice, before he pulled out his phone.

As he made to dial Cooper, he set his phone down and ended the half-done attempt.

He promised Keen.

As he looked at the photo once more, he wondered why he doesn't feel like a traitor; why he doesn't feel bad about not turning any of it in.


	5. Chapter 5

His plane taxied to a private hanger in Montenegro, just outside Faro, and almost an hour away from their destination a few miles away from Praia de Galè in Albuferia, Portugal. He sat back in the plush seat as Roderick turned off the plane's engines and Dembe moved back and forth between the aisle, making sure that nothing would be left on the plane. Hudson trotted alongside, collar jingling as he ran down the stairs after the bodyguard. After all, Red figured they'd be there for a while so he gave Roderick some much needed vacation time. She woke from her nap and heard him sigh as he unbuckled the seatbelt and watched as he carefully put on his fedora and sunglasses. Although the later wasn't particularly needed, they were a staple in his wardrobe. She hadn't meant to fall asleep but being asleep was easier than holding the barf bag to her nose, sniffing the paper-y smell in an attempt to quell the slight sick feeling at the mild turbulence. He seemed comfortable enough, or at least he hadn't complained when she shifted in her seat and leaned against his side instead of the cool mahogany of the plane's paneling. He helped her out of her seat and held her forearm as they slowly descended the steps and made their way to the car. As Dembe carted the few pieces of luggage they had with them, Red opened her door and called for Hudson to hop into their car. She briefly wondered why and how Red's car was here waiting for them. But she was too tired and too queasy to think on the subject.

"I'm sorry," Red said as she touched the top of the car.

"Why?" She wondered.

"Unfortunately, the Portuguese, much like the Italians and Sicilians, prefer to make their roads quite winding," he told her.

He heard the sigh and tried not to smile at her discontent.

"I brought the bag from the plane, just in case," he said as a peace offering. "But perhaps another nap might help."

"I want to see what this place looks like," she tried.

"Lizzie," Red began. He sided up to her and placed his hands on her arm, caressing her skin with his slightly calloused but otherwise soft hands. "You look exhausted and quite frankly, ready to throw up."

"What every pregnant woman wants to hear," she sighs quietly.

"The sun is almost setting and Albuferia is best viewed in the mid-afternoon anyway," he shrugged. "I promise we won't go sight seeing tonight."

The sound of the trunk shutting brought them both back to the reality of the situation and Dembe looked over the top of the car to Red. She watched Red nod and bit her lip.

"Can I at least use your coat?" she asks.

The plane was too stuffy and she had taken it off mid-flight, right before her impromptu nap. She assumed Dembe now had it in the trunk and he had just shut the door and started the engine.

He nods and steps back to take off the garment as she gets into the car. She has her seatbelt buckled and looked up as he leans down and drapes his coat over her form.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He flashes her a little smile and shuts her door before stepping forward and getting into the passenger seat.

Her stomach seems to settle for the most part as she adjusts the coat around herself until she's comfortable and covered. She thinks its funny that the slight smell of his aftershave and the slight saltiness of his natural scent lingering on his coat settles the queasiness she's been plagued with. Perhaps the little thing growing inside her knows the scent of the one who he or she shares half a DNA sample with. She silently chuckles at the thought-how ridiculous-and leans back further into the seat.

By the time they clear the multiple checkpoints and exit the airport, she's asleep with her head leaning between the window and the seat back.

He flips the sun blocker and the mirror up when he is sure she's asleep and turns to face the view.

Dembe quietly drives the car and Red notices that every once in a while, his eyes drift to the rear view mirror and checks on the passenger in the back. He's quite thankful she has someone else-in addition to himself-that will look out for her.

The house-villa, really-was massive as she had expected. The villa was situated on a private road just off Rua dos Mareantes the closer one got to the ocean. She was awoken when they turned off from the smoothly paved road to that of the compacted dirt road. They had two neighbors with larger villas but what Red's lacked in size made up for in land. As Dembe pulled the car into the driveway, she noticed the house was surrounded with trees and tall privacy shrubs. She knew Red preferred his privacy but this was almost beautiful. The lush, almost forest like, density of trees on the left side of the driveway would make for an interesting and playful walk for Hudson. The other side of the driveway had the privacy shrubs in addition to a white stucco privacy wall with vines creeping alongside it. She wondered if he purposefully put the vines there or if they grew naturally. She figures the latter since he doesn't really seem like the gardening type. As she turned back to looking out the window across from her, it seemed Dembe had a house all to himself on the other side of the driveway. It was smaller than the villa but she was quite positive the guest house was bigger than her house in DC. As they pulled further into the driveway and entered the garage, she noticed her car was in the spot next to them. As she opened the door, shrugging Red's coat over her shoulders, and let Hudson out, she couldn't help but run her fingers along the top of her car. It seemed like ages since she had last seen the thing.

"Coming, Lizzie?" Red chuckled as he motioned to the door.

She nodded and stepped to his side once again.

The house from the outside looked as if it was only one level but she quickly changed her mind as she saw stairs sloping down on one side of her. But he took her the other way, into what she assumed was the main room. His shoes tapped a rhythm on the beautiful dark red-orange adobe floors. They were grouted in a deep brown color and sealed to a shiny, perfect quality. And as she walked into the main entrance level, her jaw dropped. The view of the crystal blue and green sea could be seen from every angle of the house. The lounge was expansive and sunken in the open space concept first level. The couches looked like white pillowed clouds of comfort and she smiled to herself as she noticed the small table in the corner with a beautiful chess board sitting, waiting to be played. There were a total of four french doors leading outside to the terrace alone in this room and outside the patio-with not one but two tables and a high two-seater table with equally tall chairs-was flanked by lawns on all sides with a large pool off to the right side. The patio extended as far as she could see. And the retaining wall built around it was white stucco on one side and large cobbler stones on the other. Green grass extended until the land dropped into a cliffside. She noticed a large chiminea by the pool and could already imagine the smell, the crackling of an actual, real wood fire. She had missed those kinds of fires. New places were getting those electrics ones if they even had a fireplace. She expected an open fire pit and was pleasantly surprised he could surprise her by having something traditionally Mexican in the Portuguese villa.

She stepped outside and absorbed the sea air. Red's coat-that she still had around her shoulders-warded off a bit of the chilled air as the sun continued to set just beyond the cliffside. It really did look like the sun was being swallowed by the sea. Pine trees and palm trees flanked the stucco privacy walls surrounding the villa and bright green vines looked like veins popping out of the otherwise perfect wall here, too. There were teak lounge chairs flanking the pool and the low retaining wall at the higher point of the sloped hillside. She hoped a few of the chairs at least had lounge pillows or something in storage otherwise she'd be bringing inside pillows outside. A gentle slope gave way to a second part of the house where it was seemingly unattached save for the atrium from her point on view.

There were three small outposts that functioned as smaller guest houses but when she looked over and asked what they were, he had a grin that suggested they were far from innocent in appearance. He most likely had another counterfeiting production line in one. Or stored illegal something or others. She was sure it was something though. The villa was literally steps away from the beach. She could see the neighbor's house next door hundreds of meters away but they seemed to be the only ones home.

"Would you like a tour of the rooms?" a voice whispered in her ear.

She turned her head to find him standing almost flush behind her-if he was to take another step closer, at least.

"Okay," she nodded.

He held out his elbow and she wrapped an arm through his and her hand curled into the crook of his elbow as they inched closer towards the house.

"How many rooms?" she asked as they stepped through the door and went back the way they came in the first place.

"Four in this house," he says as he walks with his held held high and slightly angled towards hers as he answers her question.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks.

"I asked him to drive to the hotel just down the beach for dinner. I have people who can bring me cars but none who can shop for me. Money doesn't buy you everything," he laughs at his own joke.

He opens the door and lets his arm fall to his side as she slides past him to move into the room. Its decorated in a sea foam green and light-almost-white gray. It's odd how two similar colors you wouldn't touch as a child in the Crayola crayon box mix so well as an adult trying to piece together a room. This room doesn't have a view of the sea, its on the other side of the house. But what it lacks in view, makes up for in size. Instead of the adobe tile they walk on, the bedroom has a mahogany brown hint to it. It reminds her of standing on an old ship deck, one made out of real wood. Its long like shag carpet but not the 60's shag, a modern upgrade. She finds it reassuring the bed has blankets instead of comforters. It's the seemingly one constant in their lives right now. A creamy white bookshelf aligns one side of the room and some cubby holes are filled with books of all shapes and sizes. Some are empty. Some have a decorative piece of art or a vase in it. She wonders if they are from his travels.

The second room is decorated much like the first except this one is a pale blue and white color scheme. She really likes the colors. She doesn't know why but she always figured Raymond Reddington would be more into the darker, deeper colors. These past two rooms have contrasted that idea, though. There's a painting in the room of the open ocean from the bow of a ship. The sea is endless in the painting just like the view the room is missing.

The third room is once again repeated with the exception of the color scheme. This room was gray but not in the dark, dank sense of gray. More like a bluesy, purple-y, and greenish gray. She was reminded of the artwork he'd been shipping to a man on the phone years ago when they were hunting Gina Zanetakos. The gray was a bit lighter than that of the painting but she realized all the rooms had a color scheme type theme from that painting. Or at least, she thought they did. Unlike the other two rooms, this one did have a view of the sea. She doesn't know why but suddenly she gets a flash of this being the baby's room. Probably only because it's the closest to the master, she thinks.

"The washrooms are there and there," he pointed to the shut doors on either side of the hallway that they didn't go in as they exit the latest room.

"Once you've seen one washroom, you've seen them all?" she teases.

"Oh, I think you'll like ours the best," he quips.

They meander through the hallway and he opens the door to the master bedroom. Her jaw drops merely at the size.

The room is light and airy, one side is mostly doors leading outside to the patio and terrace. The bed is large, much larger then ones she had ever slept in before, even with him and his adventures, and she can't help the way her feet move her there. The pillowed headboard is a rich slate gray color that doesn't look odd with the almost light buttery yellow of the walls. The bed sheets themselves are a pristine white color with mixed pillows featuring white, slate gray, and buttery yellow. The nightstands flanking the bed are wicker, like the two chairs by the chess table out in the living room and she smiles. Not everything is about wealth and status. Or perhaps it came furnished like this. She doesn't really know. The built-in book cases are sunken into either side of the bed extending all the way to the corners where one wall meets another. There's a walk in closet almost as large as her bedroom on one side and she assumes the other door is the washroom.

"Why light colors?" she asks as she sits on the edge of their bed. She traces a creamy buttery yellow blanket sitting at the foot of the bed.

He shrugs his shoulders. He stands at one of the doors leading outside and pushes a billowy white curtain back to let her see the view outside. It looks like their entire room is the sunken space she thought was the disconnected part of the house. The gentle slope is now an uphill battle-a small one-and the view looks like they'll be swallowed by the setting sun and the sea. She's absolutely mesmerized by the sight.

He turns and steps out of the way of the sunset, watching as it plays across her face. The room has a pink-orange glow about it which makes the buttery yellow color seem more yellow orange than its "natural" state. He's sure his new favorite view will be from this room. Watching the sun rise and sun set across her skin. Her little tired, genuine smile she gives him when he's caught staring at her as she wakes and finds his eyes on her form. There's a beauty to Elizabeth Keen that's highlighted with the light through the windows. She seems to glow, to revel in the sun shining on her pale skin. She wasn't made to live in the shadows like him. But she chooses her own path and nothing he can do will prevent her from trying to shine her light in his vast ocean of darkness.

"What?" she asks. She runs a hand through her hair self consciously. She knows her hair is mused from travel and sleep and she probably looks a bit like death warmed over. But he's got that look in his eyes and she can't help but wonder why.

"The light," he begins and pauses. He takes his steps slowly, cautiously until he's standing just to the side of her. The light still plays against her face. His fingers tip her chin up as she tries to look down at her hands in her lap. He smiles down at her. A quick flash of a smile and his expression is once again lost to her. He tilts his head towards the door.

"Dembe's back," he tells her.

"Okay," she nods. "I'm just going to..."

She points to the washroom and he nods.

"I'll go on ahead," he tells her.

His steps are slow and she waits until he leaves the threshold to finally get up from the bed and go into the washroom. She's tired and yet alert at the same time. She wants to talk to him, gauge his reactions but it's taking too much of her energy to simply keep her eyes open. After splashing her face with water and using the toilet, she makes her way to the kitchen. At least she has an appetite, she thinks.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. Dembe had driven to one of the hotels just down the beach and picked something up from one of the restaurants inside. She didn't know how but whatever this dish was, it settled well with her and she was grateful. She watched Red sneak pieces of whatever he had onto the floor and heard the familiar chomp as Hudson became a dog-sized compactor, eating everything he was given. It looked like Red had given Hudson most of his meal but neither she nor Dembe chose to point it out.

She watched him as he walked out past the pool. Hudson, not one to be left behind, ran after the man. She leaned against the open French door and felt Dembe standing beside her, leaning on the other side of the frame. Dishes were few and far between tonight thanks to the take out boxes.

"He's been quiet," she says. She turns her head and watches Dembe as he looks at the disappearing form of his employer. Her hands clasped together and rest against her stomach. Though still flat she can almost sense a foreign feeling about her body now. She knows they'd laugh so she keeps it to herself.

"So you have results?" Dembe asked.

She's positive he went to Dembe after she had told him what she had thought but neither man said anything to her. And she respected the privacy of both of them.

"Tentative," she nods. "The test was positive yesterday morning. But a blood test is more thorough. So is an ultrasound."

"I will find you a clinic here and you both will know," Dembe nodded.

"Thank you, Dembe," she says as she leans away from the door and grasps his forearm.

They stand there quietly, watching the sun sink lower and lower. Its taken ages for the thing to set.

"I can't get a read on him tonight," she blurts out.

This time it's Dembe who reaches out. His hand grasps her shoulder and she sags against the frame of the door.

"Have faith," is all he says.

She wonders if Dembe senses they need to talk because he nods and vanishes without another word to her. When she hears a door open and close, she figures that's her cue to head outside.

He's standing near the edge where a sandy path winds down the small cliff to the private alcove of the beach. Here there is nothing but sea in the distance. She looks down and watches the waves lap around the shore, depositing and pulling sand and rock on the beach. Hudson is sniffing around the greenery just to the side of him. She thinks he growls every so often to let Red know he's not alone.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks quietly.

She wants to sit but the only place to sit is on the ground and she's not sure she'd get up if she went down.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, avoiding her question.

"Tired," she shrugs.

"How are you feeling, Lizzie?" he asks. This time he seems to emphasize 'feeling' and she knows he's trying to probe her emotional state. Just as she is with him. They always seem to do it in a round about way.

She lets out a breath and she looks around at the view before answering.

"Scared," she admits.

She always thought if she was to have a child, it would be through adoption. She wasn't even going to broach the topic with him until well into the relationship. She thought they could afford the luxury of time but fate or whatever she wanted to believe in at the moment seemed to speed up their timeline and here they are. He radiates calm but she knows him-or at least his profile and emotions-well enough to see beyond the front. His fingers tapped along his leg and if that wasn't enough there was Hudson... the one with the sixth sense that always seemed to keep close when he sensed unease.

"I thought..." she trailed off. She picked at the hem of her shirt.

"Are we ready?" she asked. She's read the book reports of Ressler's, dug through every letter agency and their files on him, but she's only glimpsed a few stories about his past from him. She doesn't know him through him, just what she's read on paper. He's an enigma to her. She wants to know him as he knows her. They've had a strengthening relationship through the years; she trusts him completely as he does her. But the not knowing bothers her.

He finally looked at her and she bit her lip. Her wide blue eyes were darkened and dilated in this outside setting.

"A child can't fix the past," he whispered.

"Why does it always come down to fixing the past?" She asks. "Why can't it just be a new chapter in the book?"

"Because our past shapes us, Lizzie." He looks back at the sea and his jaw twitches.

"Are we okay?" she whispers. She doesn't look at him.

"We're adjusting just fine, Lizzie," he tells her. "We'll be okay."

She laughs a little as he tells her what she needs to hear instead of what she wants to hear.

"Dembe says he'll be looking for a clinic," she tells him as she switches topics a bit. Onto a lighter topic on the same subject that will hang onto them for some time. "I don't think we're going to get anywhere until after Christmas though."

She wants to ask him if she goes to bed tonight, will he still be here in the morning. But she doesn't. Instead she stays quiet and looks out to the sea. She feels his eyes on her but doesn't look at him. Because then the question will rise on it's own and she won't be able to take it back. Perhaps she should trust he'll still be here in the morning. With a final fleeting glance at him as she turns back to the house, she tries to level him with a smile. She only hopes it works.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and she knows from the file what happened years ago on Christmas Eve. Or what the higher ups dictated what happened. He says its a lie. She believes him. He has never been around on Christmas Eve or Christmas. Each year his phone-Dembe's phone-goes straight to voicemail and she never bothered asking for the location of his chip. He always left a single gift for her. It was unassuming; it was always wrapped in old newspaper rather than bright wrapping paper. It's always small and meaningful. Then again, that's what gifts are all about.

She wonders what will happen this year.

* * *

She tries to wait up for him, to see him actually sleep in the same bed as she does but fails. After unpacking her suitcase and his garment bag and suitcase, she's beyond exhausted. She thinks it's more emotional exhaustion than physical. But it's exhaustion still the same as she crawls into the bed and lifts the pristine and crisp sheets around her and steals both blankets from the foot of the bed and wrapping them around her. If she feels him tug at least one away from her, she'll at least know that he's slept in the same bed as her. The tiny little baby growing inside her seems to suck up all her energy she's reserved in waiting up for him and finds herself quickly falling into the dark abyss of sleep.

He and Hudson finally make it to the bedroom as the light starts to rise again in the morning sky. It's just a little past three but there's something about the coast that gives the illusion the sun never sets. He forgets this when he checks his wrist and notes the time. He didn't spend all night outside. Merely a few hours before heading for the chess board in the living room. His defense was set when he finally checked to see what time it was. When he finally makes it to the bed she's deep under the sheets and blankets in the middle of the bed almost leaning towards his side. He uncovers her head-he's always sure she's going to accidentally suffocate herself burrowing her head under the sheets and blankets-and finds her asleep on her stomach, one hand underneath her stomach and her head burrowed into his pillow.

He sheds his clothes, not bothering to do much else and sighs quietly as he slips underneath the sheets. He hears her let out a breath of air and stills but she doesn't wake. Instead, almost as if she could sense him, she moves her head from his pillow. He smiles tiredly and closes his eyes. His fingers reach for any part of her they can hold without waking her and he's soon asleep within minutes.

He wakes mere hours later. He puts his clothes he had shed into the hamper in the corner and dressed in his most casual wear. He figured she'd be up in a couple hours and need to eat. So, he grabbed Hudson and walked down the beach to the hotel and just past the hotel was a farmer's market of sorts. Fruit was always a good option, he hopes.

She felt his eyes on her as she woke. She blinked her eyes open and found him standing at the French door that led outside. He's half dressed: he wears black cotton pants instead of his usual dress suit pants and a white undershirt is peaking out of his casual button down shirt. Half dressed merely because he doesn't have a vest or tie nor his shoes and socks on. It's progress, she thinks. If she wasn't used to his lack of sleeping, she would have asked when he had gotten up.

"Morning, Lizzie," he whispered.

"What are you doing?" She asked. Her voice was rough with sleep. She tucked the sheet around herself and watched as he tilted his head.

He moved away from the door and he watched as she watched his movements. He sat on the bed and his fingers skimmed the sheets that covered herself.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"The fishy smell is back," she said. Her nose pressed into the sheets and she closed her eyes. The sheets smelled fresh, salty air and sunshine with a hint of detergent. It was soothing compared to the fishy smell outside the sheets.

She heard him chuckle and he got up from his position on the bed next to her, heading for the shadowy corner next to a large white painted bureau. He grabbed his shirt from last night and dangled it on a crooked finger as he walked back towards her.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her.

She sat up slowly, her fingers snatching the shirt dangling precariously from his finger and slid it over her t-shirt she wore. That familiar smell unique to Raymond Reddington still lingered on the shirt. She still felt queasy but she was sure with a small amount of breakfast, it would stop. She didn't swim in his shirt but his arms were a bit longer than hers and he took one of her arms and began to roll up the cuffs.

"Can a baby sense smells yet?" she asked jokingly as she sighed.

"Perhaps ours is advanced for its age," he quips.

She was surprised to find he never wore cologne. Instead, the familiar smell she and the baby were so fond of was a mix of simple shampoo-soap, deodorant, shaving soap, and aftershave. All the bottles and soaps were always neatly aligned on the countertop on his side of the sink and in the shower for the shampoo-soap. Double sinks were invented by the gods, she thought. Not that they had too much to crowd a single sink. It was just nice having something that was her own while traveling.

She borrows his robe because he's already dressed for the day. And he hands it to her as soon as she comes out of the washroom. Despite the tension in their conversation from last night, they are relatively at ease with one another in the morning light.

"Breakfast?" He asks.

She nods and he gestures to the door and he places a hand at the small of her back as they make their way to the kitchen.

As she sits at the nook watching Hudson eat the last of his dog food, she wonders when he got all the fruit laying out on the counter. Instead of asking, she watches him as he puts berries and peaches into a blender with enough water to cover the fruit. The blender turning on has Hudson's attention and he moves from his food bowl to the counter where Red is testing the thickness of the smoothie he just made.

"Try that," he says as he pours a small amount into a small glass and makes his way over to the nook she's found that overlooks the ocean. Their fingers brush and she smiles internally at the way her body involuntarily ignites at even the smallest of contact with him. It's a rush of warmth and feelings spreading through her veins.

The smoothie has just a hint of tartness from the berries and a brief sugary sweetness from the peaches. It's not overwhelming to her sensitive taste buds and she keeps the first sip down. She read that sometimes it's a feat to get something down in the morning. So far she hasn't had that problem but the constant queasiness makes her feel like she's stuck on a sailboat.

"Thank you," she says.

He nods and goes back to the counter and pours himself a glass and puts the leftovers in the fridge. It would just need a bit of ice and a blend. She thinks smoothies might become her friend. He makes his way over to the nook and sits on the other side, leaning back casually.

"Where's Dembe?" She asks as she notices his steady presence is missing.

"Probably sleeping," he says. "It's only eight o'clock."

"Oh," she noted.

"Hudson and I took a walk this morning down to the local market by the hotel," Red tells her. "We picked up this fruit and a few other things in case that didn't settle."

"How far away is the hotel?" she asks.

"Almost five miles if you take the streets. Two miles if you go up the beach. We went the beach route," he laughs to himself.

She shakes her head slightly and looks over at the dog now flopped out in the middle of the kitchen.

"I have a bit of unfinished business to take care of today," he says slowly. He's watching her, gauging her reaction.

Her brow lifts in question as she sips.

"Extra security, and I think it's time to check in with Donald and see how the list is coming along," he says.

He sips at his own smoothie as if it's another ordinary day. Which she supposes it technically is now.

"Dembe is going to the markets. Perhaps you'd like to join him," he tells her.

It's more of a command than a suggestion she thinks. She doesn't take it personally.

"Because I'm the one who's going to have the changing taste buds?" She asks with a small smile.

He offers her one back and nods.

"I remember my wife had a fondness for the strangest things. She constantly ate those oyster crackers, the kind you get with some soups, despite not feeling sick," he recalls. "Of course she ate them all the time in the morning before breakfast. Couldn't begin to eat without them."

He gets this sort of wistful look on his face and her features pinch as she tries to memorize this moment. He rarely talks about his wife and daughter if he brings up his past. It's interesting to see this side of him, knowing it's a painful past and still not knowing what really happened to them. He acts as if it doesn't affect him but she can see it does. The wistful look he flashed her had taken a few years away from his aura. It was lighter, more carefree. But then his demeanor was set in place again and she smiled up at him.

"We can still do the nightly walks together, right?" she asks.

"Of course, Lizzie," he nods. He tips his empty glass on the wood table underneath the glass and looks up. "I only took Hudson without you because you were sleeping so soundly and we were both up."

She nods, reassured.

* * *

She always had a frosty or snowy Christmas. It seemed this year she was destined for sunshine; cool sunshine but sunshine nonetheless.

The fish market was too close to Oceano supermercado and she found herself retching into a trashcan with Dembe's hand on her back as she held her hair. He purchased a water for her and she swished out her mouth and stepped away from the alley trashcan and sipped at the water. He suggested another market-Supermercado Apolónia-slightly up the road that had a better selection anyway, and asked if she wanted to wait in the open air. She nodded and he let her go with a warning to stay alert. She had promised she would and asked him to get Saltines or whatever equivalent he could find. She was thankful he hadn't told her she couldn't go anywhere but she knew to stay in the relative line of sight of the market's entrance. Which is how she found herself staring at the hair stylist's window and a half hour later was beginning to look a lot less like a cop.

Dembe's only reaction was a slight upturn of his lips and a nod. He had told her not many markets were open for a lot of the everyday items but he'd gotten food for Hudson and enough food to at least get them through Christmas.

Red was playing solo chess when they walked inside-the game he had started with himself much earlier in the morning. She was playfully attacked by Hudson. She figured it was because she was the one holding his bag of food while Dembe carried the rest of the groceries. He had almost put up a protest but she had shot him down with a careful look. She was pregnant, not an invalid, cliche as it was. After all, as she thinks back on Hudson's playful attacks, it always seemed to happen to Tom whenever he had the food when they had gone to the store. Dembe told her he'd unpack the rest of the groceries and she knew from the look he gave the sunken living room, he'd be watching as he begins the cooking process.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned down so her chin ever so slightly brushed the top of his head.

"Who's winning?" She asks.

He gives her a chuckle and one of his hands reaches up to grasp at hers. When he traps one in his hand, she leans to the side and brushes her cheek against his own. She closes her eyes as his stubble brushes against her soft cheek. She's noticed when he doesn't have to make an appearance anywhere, he will go a few days without shaving. He also prefers not to look in the mirror. Perhaps the new cut has made her bolder. She's certainly never initiated contact like this before. Her nose brushes against his cheek and he turns to face her. His surprise can't be masked as he pulls away.

"Wow," he stutters.

She laughs and suddenly feels nervous. It's not the first time she's surprise him but it's the first time she's almost rendered him speechless. Her free hand reaches her new locks and grasps and twirls through the short ends.

"Do you like it?" She asks. She certainly didn't do it for his sake but somehow his opinion does matter to her and she wants to know what he thinks.

"Should I grow mine out? I'm sure we could match eventually," he teased. "It shouldn't take me too long to get to that length again."

She laughs. She's seen the pictures of his hair, both long and short and thinks he looks rather fetching with his hair cropped short like this. But she also finds his hair from the early 2000's to be her favorite: he grew it out from the standard military crop but it was short enough to look nice and polished. He was very professional looking, almost lawyer-like. Which she guessed is what served him well as he made a reputation of being the Concierge of Crime.

"I just needed a change," she shrugged. "Plus, everyone says I look like a cop and what if that gets you hurt."

He crooked his finger at her and she stooped down to his level again, unsure of what he was going to do.

He ran his fingers through her shortened locks and cupped the back of her head, pulling her towards him as he kissed her.

"You look beautiful," he whispered against her lips. "Stunning, really."

"Charmer," she laughed and ducked her head.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But it doesn't make it any less true."

She ducks her head and whispers she needs to go brush her teeth. He raises his brow and she confesses about the alley trash can incident. He looks concerned and she laughs it off telling him Dembe was quite the gentleman and even bought her some mints.

* * *

The kitchen smells wonderful and she longs to be able to cook like Red and Dembe. Dembe has given Red the day off cooking and has made a mini meal for three of turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberries. Her stomach growls and Red chuckles beside her. His eyes don't draw away from the book he reads and her head aims for a bit more purchase on his shoulder. Since the trip to the market, he's been almost glued to her side. She wonders if it's her unspoken fears or his own that keeps them beside one another.

Earlier, after her new haircut reveal, she had made the mistake of entering the kitchen as Dembe cleaned out the turkey. She aimed for the hall and stepped into the first washroom he'd pointed out yesterday. A glass of water dangled in her peripheral.

"I'd hold your hair back but the new haircut takes my job away," he says.

She laughs through a groan and swishes the water in her mouth, spitting in out before he leans over and flushes the toilet as she leans against the bathtub.

"I think I should stay out of the kitchen while Dembe's in there today," she says.

He chuckles despite the absurd situation and she sips at the water dangling in her fingers.

"You know our neighbors have this wonderful idea, it's called a siesta. It works wonders," Red says.

"Don't they take it after lunch?" She wonders. At first she thought he was speaking of his neighbors to either side of him but then put two and two together and knew he was speaking of Spain.

"Minor details," he shrugs.

"Come on," he holds out his hands and he takes the water from her loose grip and helps her slowly stand with the other.

They slowly make their way to their bedroom and he diverts her to the washroom so she can brush her teeth before settling in for a nap.

"Do I look tired?" she asks through a mouthful of sudsing paste.

"You do," he nods. "But I also came to bed at three and woke at six. And you know how I don't like to sleep alone."

She catches his gaze in the mirror and although his words are playful, there's a seriousness in his eyes that he can't hide from her. He's taken off his button down and left in his pants and his undershirt.

When they reach the bed, he doesn't pull back the sheets. Instead he simply lifts a blanket and covers her with it before moving to his side. She lifts her arm as he moves towards the center of the bed and he slips the blanket around him as well. His arm makes its way to curl around her middle and she slips a leg over both of his. Her eyes close involuntarily as his fingers run up and down her spine. Her fist that clenches his undershirt between their bodies loosens it's hold ever so slightly and she gives one last deep breath as she succumbs to the warmth of him surrounding her in the waining mid-morning. Little does she know he is a victim to his ploy to get her to nap, falling asleep not long after she does.

The clink of an ice cube brings her out of her memories of this afternoon and she listens as he sips at his scotch. A few hours later, Dembe woke them and said dinner would be served soon. She was still tired and Red wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and walked with her back to the living room. She sat on the couch as he went to the wet bar just to the side of the kitchen and poured himself a finger of scotch and got a single ice cube for the drink. He made his way back to the couch and sat in the corner and she leaned against him. Not quite going back to sleep but more like keeping to his side. Its just past seven and Dembe is carving the turkey. He thought it was a good idea to have it already cut in case she finds something unappealing with carving the bird.

The mashed potatoes are her favorite. The little mound has a buttery little lava flow as the melted butter makes its way down the potato volcano she's accidentally built. The potatoes are light and creamy and taste like heaven. They are perfectly lump-free which bodes well for her. She also mixes the potatoes and cranberries which makes the two men give her side eyes but they refrain from saying much. The turkey is flavorful and yet not too overpowering. Its the perfect mix of spice and she wonders how Dembe can make these meals and keep her stomach from revolting. She thinks eating slowly is also a good idea.

She knows that being thankful for your family is said at Thanksgiving but she really is thankful for these two, especially at this moment. She thinks perhaps this is her greatest Christmas gift.

* * *

She was not a morning person whatsoever, he realized. Which may or may not be a good thing depending on how her morning sickness faired later on. If he was honest, neither was he but a lifetime of watching his back left him few precious hours of sleep. He longed for the days when he was able to lounge in bed and sleep past noon. But he hadn't done that since he was a kid and he was no longer a child. For gods sake he was having a child of his own, again. He carefully extracted his arm from around her waist and slipped out of the bed and watched as she breathed in deeply before settling in sleep. He watches as she adjusts to the lack of warmth next to her since he exited the bed. He looks at her sleeping face, her hand reaching out towards him as she sleeps blissfully unaware of his early morning musings. He wants to know everything about Elizabeth Keen; the little things like the little moments in her life that shaped her into the capable woman she is today. He wants to know her dreams and her fears; her phobias and her wishes; he knows deep down he already loves her but he wants to know more and show her there can be one person in her life that can want to love her and expect nothing in return except be given a second chance. He hopes she knows he's not simply staying because the pregnancy test was positive and she doesn't want to do this alone. He wants to do it because she is right-they both deserve a second chance to make a family. They're rather unconventional in their attempt, sure. But it's their own and he doesn't plan on anyone taking this second chance away.

He slips on his robe after shaking himself out of his musings and quietly padded out of the room and ran a hand across his head as he heard the familiar jingling of a dog collar as Hudson meets him in the hallway. The dog follows him down the hall and he's met with Dembe's shadow in the kitchen.

Red moves to the cupboard where they store the dog food as Dembe reaches the kettle before it could whistle and wake Elizabeth. Somehow the man always knows when he is up and about. Despite being told not to wait hand and foot, Dembe ignored the statement and did it anyway. He stopped telling the man years ago but that doesn't mean he won't stop trying to get him at least once a year.

"I have found a clinic in town willing to be very discreet," Dembe says two days after Christmas as he watches Red pour one cup of dog food into a bright orange dog bowl on the floor beside one of the table legs. Obviously Hudson knew it was time to eat.

"Hopefully you've made an afternoon appointment," Red jokes as he finally looks at the time. It's really not that early but also later than he normally wakes.

"I have noticed she favors sleeping in," Dembe says as he nods to Red's quip.

Red nods and Dembe brings the tea tray to the breakfast nook and waits for Red to sit on the bench before he served the tea.

"White ginger tea," Dembe says. "I know she prefers to not drink tea but my sisters have all used this tea to aid in the sickness that comes with a child."

Red takes the single teacup and splashes one cube of sugar into the tea before stirring it gently with a teaspoon. He leans back and sips at his tea, relishing the quiet.

"I'll have her try it," Red says as he runs the flavor profile across his tongue. It's light and not weighed down so much by the regular, darker ginger tea. He figures with a few sugar cubes, she'll at least try it.

"I will go on a more thorough food run while you are at the appointment," Dembe says as he breaks the silence.

"Make sure you get some iron rich foods," Red told him. "I know she hates oatmeal but it is good for her. She likes the tart fruits; no melons. Maybe ginger ale. It's been quite sometime since I last was a spectator to morning sickness. We'll have to wait for the second trimester to see what foods she craves."

Dembe hides a smile in his teacup at his boss' worry.

"Do you need anything else?" Dembe asked.

"No," Red shakes his head. "Thank you."

"I will see you at three," he nods.

Red watches Dembe leave the room and the only sound in the room is Hudson eating his dog food.

* * *

"Do you speak Portuguese?" She asks as he opens the car door.

"Some," he nods. He waits for her to wrap an arm around his own before heading to the door. "Spanish is more my forte."

"Couldn't you live somewhere where I at least know the language," she sighs.

"Germany has one too many of my enemies and associates who have loose lips," he tells her as he opens the door and lets her precede him inside.

She shouldn't be as surprised as she is that he knows what language she's actually good at.

There's a surprising amount of paperwork and instead of handing it to her to fill out, he starts writing in that neat script she's seen only a handful of times. She watches over his shoulder and quells the urge to throw up from nervousness or rush to the washroom to empty her bladder. It's odd and she wonders why she's not more concerned that he knows her medical history. Of course he wouldn't lie about their history- just their names. She's not sure what he checks off in terms of her history but there are fewer checkmarks on his side than hers.

"Military family," he tells her after he caught her reading over his shoulder.

She hadn't even asked the question but he somehow anticipated it.

"If we had any kind of problems, we wouldn't have been drafted and in commissioned spots," he says.

She remembers the briefing folder Ressler gave her had a brief summary of his military background. He was being groomed for Admiral. A feat in an of itself back in those days, she thinks.

He goes over the information once again and has her sign the release papers before he brings it to the counter. They wait for ten minutes before a technician calls their names he had written on the sheet.

The tech leads them to a room and tells them the doctor will be with them shortly. At least, this is what Red says after the woman shuts the door behind them. She sits on the exam table and the paper crinkles noisily underneath her shifting backside. He steps up next to her and slips a hand into her own. The touch calms her nerves and she looks up at him with a half-smile.

"I feel like I need to throw up," she whispers.

"You want me to," he trails off as he steps from her line of sight so she can see the trash can.

"I think its just nerves," she shakes her head.

"We'll be fine, Lizzie," he says.

He leans in and presses his chin to the top of her head. She closes her eyes and breathes slowly in and out as they wait. It's only when there's a knock at the door that he steps back and a 'come' is issued.

He relates the directions to her and she's thankful she doesn't have to slip into a hospital gown or something. She bites her lips and tries not to faint as her blood is drawn. She looks at him and he holds her gaze. It's enough to keep her from looking where the needle enters her arm. She can smell the tang of copper in the air. As soon as she's sure she's going to throw up on the poor doctor, a cotton swab and gauze is wrapped around her and she feels lighter and heavier at the same time. When Red tells her its ultrasound time, she simply lifts her shirt and unbuttons her pants, pulling them down to her pelvic bone before the doctor squirts a gel onto her stomach. It's not as cold as people claim it to be and it has a kind of astringent smell to it that she hadn't thought about. They all turn as the doppler hits her skin and the doctor turns on the video screen.

It was a clearly defined, little gray, tiny baby shaped blob amidst an oval of black surrounded by more gray. It was a few inches at most and he only had eyes for the little alien-like blob.

The doctor began to ask her questions like when her last period was and she counted back to before Halloween. Red translated in a fog. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen for long. The doctor nodded and paused the screen, taking shots of the little blob and measuring it with the mouse on screen with all kinds of different colored arrows.

Static whooshing filled the room and faint tiny galloping horse sounds could be heard every so often when the doppler hit the right angle on Liz's stomach.

"Ten weeks and one day," the doctor said as his hearing seemed to come in with a rush. "Everything looks to be in order. Good size and development."

He related the Portuguese back to Lizzie who was torn between watching the monitor and her eyes pleading with him to translate.

He watches her as she cleans the gel off her stomach as the doctor gives them a moment. He hands her a handkerchief to be sure- Kleenex only works so well. And when she hands it back and stands, he envelops her in his arms.

She's overwhelmed with too many emotions and she lets the tears fall onto his shirt as she holds herself up in his arms. She's elated, exhausted, sick, and wants to see pictures and video. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses on her tip toes to press her lips to his. She needs him to know despite everything, she's thankful he's here with her. He responds in equal fashion and holds her tighter, if possible.

They release one another when the technician comes in with a small CD and an envelope of pictures. She lets him take both and she holds onto his hands as Dembe pulls up in front of the clinic.

The long and winding road back to the house did nothing for her, if she was being honest with herself. He moved around to her side of the car and helped her out when Dembe eased the car into the garage. She leaned into his a little more than usual as he opened the front door and moved her to the couch. He watched as she leaned into the edge of the couch. He handed her the sonograms and the video to put beside her.

"You need to eat," he told her as he looked down at her and tilted his head to catch her eye.

"I can't," she shakes her head. It was the wrong move.

He nods. But he's going to make her something anyway. It seems instead of morning sickness, she gets evening sickness. Especially if they had to go anywhere on the roads. He relates the visit of the doctor to Dembe in low tones as he takes stock of what Dembe bought. Tells him late July-the 24th, the doctor said-they'll have a baby around the house. And Dembe stops unpacking the groceries he's bought as they were in the clinic and brings Red into a brief hug. Red returns it with affection and the two silently promise to speak more about it later.

He makes her a simple dinner of buttered noodles. She's felt queasy since the appointment and he watches as she lays on the couch with Hudson standing guard. As the toast pops, he butters that and then sets it on a plate with water. It's bland and looks quite unappealing but he promised her whatever she wanted and she wasn't up for much.

She tossed Hudson a corner of her toast and he chuckles as he watches the dog beg for more. He stands and she moved to lay across the couch again.  
Dembe enters midway through their meal and takes Hudson to the back patio. Elizabeth didn't fail to notice the man swiped a bottle of beer on the way out.  
Without Hudson begging for food the room was quiet with the occasional clinking of silverware.

"Need anything else?" He asks as he takes the tray in his hands when she finishes.

"No," she whispered. "I think my head likes to be at the same level as my stomach."

He tilted his head and watched as she slowly moved down the couch and into the position he had found her in before she had eaten dinner.

He found the routine of washing the dishes soothing. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he watched the butter mix with the soapy water.

He turned off the lights in the kitchen and quietly made his way down the steps to the living room.

As he stood over her, he noticed she was still in possession of the sonograms and had one out near her elbow. He leaned down and took it from her side, tucking it into his vest pocket. He unfolded a light throw blanket and placed it around her sleeping form on the couch. It was a bit too early to sleep but they had quite the up and down day. He moved from the couch and her sleeping form to the bar, pouring himself a finger of scotch and heading outside.

The sun was casting a bright red and orange glow over the villa. Dembe was sitting just outside the patio, tossing a ball to Hudson with a half downed beer sitting on a coaster. Red sat with a sigh and looked out to the setting sun. He took a sip of his drink and set it on the table beside him. Working his jaw his finger slipped into his vest pocket and pulled out the black and white sonogram.

"That is what is troubling you?" Dembe asked as he watched Red stare down at his hands.

"It makes it real," Red says as he leans back into the chair and looks over at Dembe. "Happened with my daughter, too. It's never really quite real until you see the first sonogram, hear the heartbeat, and then hold it in your arms."

"May I?" Dembe asked. He threw the tennis ball once more and Hudson ran after it.

Red handed him the sonogram and took another sip of his scotch. He wet his lips and watched as Dembe's normally thick exterior cracked a bit.

"A child," Dembe whispered with a small smile.

He turns back to the setting sun and raises the amber colored liquid in glass up to his line of sight.

"I come from a line of hardass fathers. My grandfather, my father, they were all military men. I was a military man before I became what I am now. Lizzie comes from a dreadful family. I couldn't even protect my first child why should I have assurances I'll be able to protect this one. Our past seems too much to overcome."

"You don't think you'd make a good father then?" Dembe asks.

"It's not that," he shook his head. He swirled the scotch around in the glass and looked into its depths. "I'm afraid I won't be strong enough if I lost another family."

"And Liz?" He asks.

"She's strong enough for all of us," he smiles that little smile he gets whenever he talks about Elizabeth Keen. The one that curls the corner of his lip and there's a brief flash in his eyes before it all disappears.

"Then you must have faith, my friend," Dembe says easily. He slides the sonogram back over to Red and taps the little blob just to the right of his fingers. "They are counting on you."

* * *

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

It rained a few days after Christmas. Dembe's only made one trip to the house and Hudson hadn't wanted to go outside in the rain but as long as Red had an umbrella standing over the poor mutt, he'd do his business and come inside after Red made sure his paws were clean. The dog would flop down by the fire and Red currently stood in the middle of the room, looking between Liz and Hudson on either side of the room.

He shrugged off his coat and hat and hung the umbrella on the coat rack before he made his way to the kitchen.

He comes back with a glass of water and crackers and she wonders how it is he knows she's just finished in the washroom. She burrowed herself into the edge of the couch with the familiar blanket around herself as she leaned towards the crackling heat of fireplace. She quickly brushed her teeth before Red and Hudson made their way inside and she still tastes the acid tang on the back of her tongue she can't reach without gagging herself and she looks sheepishly up at him.

He sits heavily in the middle, his thigh touches her feet situated under the blanket and she releases one of her hands from the blanket to take the glass. She feels his stare as she sips slowly and she closes her eyes as the water runs down her throat. It helps quell the feeling that still, almost constantly lingers. He opens the cracker package and takes the water from her without a word and they trade. He places the glass on a coaster in front of his feet that end up on the coffee table as he leans back.

She takes her time eating the dry squares. The dry, salty tang touches her tongue as she purposefully puts the lightly salted side down on her tongue and she briefly, ever so lightly, sucks the salt off before she halves the cracker with a single bite. It's not much salt but it's enough to at least flavor the otherwise dry, bland cracker. She continues this until the package is gone-he's given her the one she half finished earlier this morning-and the white packaging finds its way to the side table as she leans into him.

Wordlessly, he edges them to the other side so they're not leaning awkwardly in the middle of the couch and so her head is relatively level with her stomach. Her cheek brushes his as she leans against him. His hand sneaks between the blanket and finds her skin, rubbing the soft, smoothness of her bared shoulder with his calloused fingers.

"Is it different?" she asks. She pauses and thinks about how she should clarify her question without making him retreat into himself. "This time around."

His fingers smooth and scratch at the nape of her neck as he moves upward; he expels a larger breath. He doesn't even realize what he does when he turns into himself and his memories.

"It's different yet the same," he says.

She waits and would have probably waited forever to hear him expand. Luckily she only has to wait a few moments.

"My family is full of... not the easiest of fathers. I suppose it was only a natural requirement I go into the military as well. It was more verbal abuse than physical. My father said it was to toughen me up for all the instructors I'd have at Annapolis; wanted me to get Admiral before he did," he pauses for a long while and she can almost feel him as he lightly rests his chin atop her head. "I think all soon-to-be parents will always be nervous about their future child. What will she look like, will she love me, will I love her... It's always the same questions and fears; the universal constant. I have the additional fear of will I be able to keep you two alive this time around."

She doesn't know if he consciously speaks of the gender but she doesn't want to probe him on that topic yet. She's not sure how he'll take it or how she'll even take it once they go in for that scan. But that's a while off and she's not ready to bring that up yet. But she can hear the pain in his voice and she knows that at least she can bring him back to the present. She whispers his name against his skin. His full name and not the nickname she's taken to these last couple years. It's still foreign on her tongue but its a soft sort of spoken word that has power.

His face is hidden in the shadows and she'd have to crane her neck in an awkward position to read him so she can only feel him respond instead of watching him. He brings himself around and she knows when he's fully in the present because he lets out a little hum in response to hearing his full name whispered from her lips.

"I can help you protect us, you know," she whispers and she feels him let out a sigh.

With a breath of air she could disappear; he could disappear. But they stay here in the remote isolation, something holding both of them back and staying with each other. She knows despite all his initial arguments of why she should leave, she knows he'd protect her better than the FBI would have been able to. He gives a brief chuckle and she feels the warmth of his breath against her chilling skin.

"I know, Lizzie," he nods. "I know."

* * *

She had her head on the cool wood of the table and groaned in her mind as something was set on the table. She had no appetite. She didn't know why he was pushing this.

"Lizzie," her name rang out on his lips.

"I can't eat," she said. Her voice muffled since she didn't look up.

"It's not food," he tried.

She slowly brought her head up from the table and peered at him through one squinted eye as she eyed the tea tray.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Dembe's sisters all swear by it," he nodded. "Dembe and I opened it a few days ago to taste it. It's quite delicious, actually."

Her nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed.

"Trust me," he nods.

She gives him that look and knows that they simple have to utter those words and it's useless to argue against it. She's trusted him since Garrick, since that whole Tom fiasco. She thinks he's always trusted her even when she didn't have faith in herself. Their lives depended on trusting one another-still do and perhaps even more so now.

She watched as he put a cube of sugar in one and two cubes in another, using the glass stirring stick before handing her a cup and saucer. It was her own fault really, when he didn't take his eyes off her. She's been having the hardest time keeping food down and she thinks he partially blames himself. Though, really, how were they to know this would happen.

"Hot," she says through the first sip and he chuckles behind his own dainty cup.

"Other than that?" he asks.

She leans against the back of the bench she sits on in the nook and almost feels the tea working through her digestive tract. It sort of burns through her in a good way; turning off the reflexes that make her want to rush to the washroom to empty her already empty stomach.

"Remember that time you had me try that mint stuff?" she asks as she puts a hand on her stomach. She watches as he nods before she continues. "It's kind of like that rushing through me right now."

"Pleasant?" he hopes.

"I think so," she nods.

He nods and sips at his own tea.

"Should we visit the doctor?" he asks after a few minutes of silent sipping.

"I think the roads would only make it worse," she told him honestly.

He gives a gesture of relief, as if he didn't really want to go to the doctor but merely suggested it to give her an option.

"I'll have Dembe turn on the secure wireless connection," he tells her.

"Does that mean I can borrow your iPad?" she asks.

"I certainly have no real use for it," he says as he hides a smile behind his tea cup.

That doesn't mean when she takes her nap that he'll scour the internet for what he can do to ease this seemingly persistent all day sickness she's been plagued with. He'll watch her carefully as she looks herself. Not to keep track of what she visits but more like a tutorial in how to work the technology he doesn't even begin to pretend to understand.

* * *

The siestas he had revered had become a daily thing. As soon as Hudson and Dembe went for their afternoon walk and whatever else Dembe did when he wasn't Red's shadow, he took her hand or placed a hand on the small of her back and propelled her into the bedroom. He always propped open a door and the billowy white curtain shielding them from the afternoon sun swayed as the breeze caught the fabric. She had always claimed she was never tired so he handed her a book and told her to start reading. Sometimes she would stay up and simply sit against the pillows and the headboard with the soft sounds of his breathing keeping her calm and warm. His head pillowed on her frame also helped in keeping her stationary. Other times, she'd fall asleep with him even though she hadn't meant to do so and she finds herself with a crick in her neck and a Raymond Reddington with a slightly inflated ego for the rest of the night, silently telling her 'I told you so.'

One time she had been adamant about how she wasn't feeling good and didn't want to sleep so she spent the hours reading the first volume of Proust's  _In Search of Lost Time-_ Swann's Way. He had shoved in her hands and she propped the book on her thigh and he had his head nestled between her side and the propped pillows after she refused to lay down all the way, on account of she really wasn't tired today. Her arm moved to encompass his shoulders and as he leaned into her, her hands ran absently through the short hairs along the nape of his neck and the side of his head. He hummed quietly at the pressure points she came into contact with and she found herself focusing more on what her fingers were doing rather than the words on the page. She chuckled as he gave a small shudder and quickly stopped as he turned his head and nuzzled against her breast. She faltered in her speech-he loved it when she read aloud-as his mouth came into contact with the flimsy material of her shirt.

"Tit for tat, my dear," he claimed as he settled innocently against her once again.

That siesta turned out to be not so much a rest as a reconnection and a post-coital nap where she had surprisingly woken up before him and not just to expel what remained of her lunch.

She had sworn that night when Dembe had shown up for dinner, there was a little smirk in his eye and she noticed Red kept touching her. Like reassuring himself she was still here.

He seemed a lot more refreshed after his siestas. He couldn't sleep at night but in the afternoons he was like a kindergarten child in need of a nap after a morning of school and running around. She wondered if their child would enjoy having afternoon siestas with him on the occasion he wasn't called away on business. It seemed like this was just the calm before the storm and she was anticipating a roughy road ahead. She wasn't naïve and knew this couldn't possibly last; this quiet. It was the calm before the storm much like it was the first year into their partnership. The calm unnerved both of them. And she knew he was itching to do something, anything.

When she did sleep, she noticed he was always curled around her or her limbs were around his own frame, depending on what side she fell asleep on. When she asked him why, since she assumed this occurred nightly as well, he had told her that sleeping on her stomach was eventually going to be out of the question and he was simply helping her find a new position to sleep in.

Today she had actually slept, long and hard until the smell of dinner overwhelmed her. Not in disgust but mouthwatering, stomach grumbling, sort of hungry for dinner, overwhelming. It was the first time in days she had an appetite and she didn't want to waste the opportunity.

He was still asleep next to her which meant it was Dembe in the kitchen and Hudson as his sous chef.

Briefly she wondered how they even got dinner done most nights since their siestas often lasted a lot longer than two hours.

She ran the back of her finger over the bridge of his nose. His response was a simple shifting of his head further into the pillow with a wrinkle of his nose at the offending digit.

"Wake up," she said sleepily. Her nose touched his chin as she tried to remove herself from the cocoon that was Raymond Reddington.

"Five minutes," he whispered. She wasn't even sure he was conscious. But the deep breath in gave him away.

"Dembe's making dinner," she told him. "We slept in again. And I'm actually hungry."

"It's raining," he said. Completely ignoring her words.

She paused and settled against him, listening to the sounds outside.

"No, it's not," she told him.

"But it got you to stay still," he chuckled against her and he finally pulled back and released her from his grasp.

"What do you think he's making?" She asked as she sniffed the air.

"A light curry if the smell is anything to go by. Should be a fun color to paint the toilet with tonight," he told her.

She sighed. Anything that went down eventually came up. Some foods were even off limits to talk about for fear she'd run to the bathroom. Butternut squash was one of those off topic foods. Luckily they didn't seem to be much of a hit in their seaside little town.

"Did you find any solutions to that yet?" she asked quietly.

"Perhaps," he said as he lifted an arm above his head and yawned.

She was watching his lips and found herself mirroring his yawn.

"Are you going to tell me?" she wondered.

"Let's get through today and let me make the arrangements before you completely say no," he tells her.

Her brows furrow but she lets it be. She knows he'd never let any harm come to her but she's wary about what he's found to try and help her constant "morning" sickness.

* * *

He opened his eyes, almost like clockwork, and sighed, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand beside him. He padded out to the kitchen and let her have her privacy as he turned on a light and dug the saltines and candied ginger from the pantry and the water from the filter jar just outside the fridge. The little babe despised cold water or ice water, it seemed. So the jug of filtered water was left out specifically for her.

He padded lightly into the bathroom and squinted at the harsh light. She was still over the bowl and he placed the food on the counter and took one of her hands and wrapped it around the glass.

She put the glass up to her lips and swished like she did every time and he took the glass back and traded her the glass for her toothbrush.

When her mouth felt clean again she spit out the minty paste and flushed the toilet and heard him run the taps as she closed her eyes and scoot herself back against the wall.

A cool washcloth hit her forehead and she sighed, and once he freed her of the toothbrush, she was bringing a hand to hold it in place and heard him take his place beside her. She couldn't help but smile as the crinkle of the packaging alerted her to what he had brought with him.

A square cracker landed in her hand and she brought it up to her lips, nibbling on the dry cracker. She frowned when she heard a snap and brief chewing beside her.

"Those are mine," she said.

"These will be safe from me," he said as he put the other half in the package. He still didn't know how anyone ate these without soup. "But I guess the blander the better."

"You were right," she whispered.

"I usually am," he smirked as he leaned his head back against the wall and rubbed his forehead.

"It didn't taste much like curry going down but I felt it coming up," she says.

He chuckles because she meant for him to do so.

"Dembe uses coconut milk to reduce the curry flavor," he says to her.

There's silence as she finds another cracker in the palm of her hand and she sucks the salt off once again. Her palm settles on her stomach and she presses her fingers against her stomach. She lets out a muffled sigh and breathes out of her mouth in short puffs.

"I stole Dembe's candy," he tells her.

"The sugar cane?" She asked.

"God no, I don't have a death wish. No, the candied ginger."

Her features squinted and he opened the bag.

"It's hard ginger so you suck on it like any other hand candy," he tells her. "It's actually quite good. We get it from this place in the Caribbean that specializes in this sort of thing."

"Fine," she says after a few minutes of self deliberation.

He bites one candy in half, they're quite powerful and he doesn't need her throwing up the crackers she's bound to finish off before they sleep again, and gives her a small chunk while talking the rest for himself.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she finishes her cracker and takes a sip of her water before slipping the small piece of candy into her mouth.

"How does it taste?" He asks.

"Strange," she says truthfully.

The candy is rough in texture from the almost rock candy like texture of the candied ginger. It's stronger than the tea they make her and she finds her stomach seems to quiet and as she swallows the extra saliva being produced from sucking on the candy, there's a slow, nice burn that refreshes the acidic taste of what she has thrown up moments before.

He hummed and she finally removes the cloth from her forehead. Her head lands on his shoulder and she feels his lips on her skin before he settles his head against the wall. She can hear his candy rolls against his teeth as he plays with his own piece. She also doesn't miss his hand as it rests against the flat of her stomach, joining her hand. Their fingers brush against one another and she smiles and turns her face into his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this every night," she says.

He hums and she finds it to be a negative.

"I'm not sleeping anyway. Might as well do something productive."

She finds this the least productive part of her day but she doesn't question why he finds it important to be here with her.

* * *

Her fingers traced over the wooden nightstand as she nearly blindly reached for the package of saltine crackers. To her relief she found the white package and squinted as she attempted to quietly pull a few crackers from the package.

"I'm up," his voice rang out and she felt him move closer.

Her three crackers left in the package were noisily scooped from the package and she slowly turned around in his arms to face him. His eyes watched her own as she slid a whole square into her mouth and bit down. Saltines were known for being messy and she didn't want the bed filled with crumbs because she needed a bit of food in her stomach before getting out of bed today.

"Are we doing anything today?" She asked through her mouthful of cracker. The only downside was these things have her a dry mouth. Looking to Red's side of the bed she noticed his water was still full. He caught her stare and shuffled away, bringing her the glass she way eying. He waited until she finished her three crackers to hand off the cup.

"Dembe wanted to head to the market but that's how far plans have extended," he answered her previous question.

She watched as he closed his eyes and she listened to the sounds outside. Dembe must be there in the house because Hudson isn't scratching at the door. She leaves their bed and makes sure her ears aren't deceiving her and checks for Hudson outside the door. Finding no dog, she closes the door once again. She turns and heads for the french doors in the room and pushes aside the billowy curtains.

It was raining again. She didn't really think it would rain here but it was winter technically. And the sights were amazing, even in the rain. You didn't even have to squint to see the raincloud sucking up the salty sea water and releasing the big fat drops of rain. Instead it was like a large gray mist settled over the sea. The storm made the waves crash around their beach louder and she figured it was probably hitting the rocks that jutted into the sea in addition to the sandy beach.

"Beautiful isn't it?" He asks from behind her. She can see his reflection through the closed panes on the door. She wasn't sure when he got up from the bed because usually she noticed that sort of thing.

"I didn't expect you do like rain," she says honestly. Its sort of a reminder that they're still trying to get to know on another outside the bounds of the professional relationship they've had for years.

"I like everything but snow," he tells her.

She watches as he watches her reflection.

"DC has snow and you came back to DC. You waited until I was transferred to DC," she points out.

"I had business in DC," he shrugs.

The business was a long list, she thought to herself. His contacts and enemies; the house he once lived in that he blew up; her and the blacklist.

He wraps an arm around her and its at this moment when her stomach starts to rebel. His fingers are fleeting as they land back at his side. He rubs at his forehead and knows that now is the time to call in a small favor to try his hand at helping her queasiness. He needs to go talk to Dembe to get the sat phone to make the call.

* * *

She and Dembe put away the groceries and he says he needs to go back into town and get some information for Red. She looks at the time and notes it's siesta time anyway and waves him off. The cool sunshine and brisk pace they had set for getting their errands all finished left her in need of a recharge. She made her way back to the bedroom and almost stumbled as she noticed Red on the bed. He's still in his robe and pajamas and on the bed. She can see little red ends on needles sticking out all over him. She definitely didn't expect him to stay behind for acupuncture.

He was propped up with his eyes closed and the room felt lighter, if possible. She noticed a woman in the corner and nodded when she did as she made her way to his side of the bed. Her hand sneaks out from her side and she places it on his chest and she watches him smile. She frowns at the needles in his face move with his grin.

"Lizzie," he says without opening his eyes or moving.

"Does it hurt?" She asks.

He peeks open an eye and smiles briefly before his face relaxes once more.

"No," he says. "Rather the opposite."

He cants his head away from her and dismisses the woman in the corner, telling her she's free to wait around the house until the treatment is done.

"You're letting her roam the house?" She asks.

"Ann is a dear old friend; a wonderful healer. I trust Hudson will bark at her if necessary. He did so when she showed up this morning," he tells her.

"He can be a guard dog when he wants to be," she points out.

"Come, lay beside me as I feel my endorphins sing," he tells her.

He closes his eyes as he hears her move.

She chuckled and moved to her side. She takes off her shoes and removes her watch as she climbs in. She pulls both their blankets over her form and she looks up at him as she lies on her side and tilts her head on her pillow. She was careful not to touch him so when one of his hands placed itself on her head, she froze.

"This is what I had in mind," he said with his eyes closed. "I read studies and even talked to Ann as she pierced me."

"It's needles," she says as her brow furrows. And his use of the word 'pierce' definitely turned her off for a moment.

She barely handled the single needle she had to have when they made their first prenatal appointment. It took all she had not to throw up or cry or both. She doesn't know if she can handle it even if they are small, little needles.

"You don't have to do this Lizzie. But it works miracles," he tells her.

His voice is somewhat muffled as he tries not to shift too much with the little needles in certain pressure points of his body.

"Does it really not hurt?" She asks.

"There's a slight pinch as it hits the skin but nothing more. And it's nothing like the one you had at the clinic," he tells her honestly. "Really, Lizzie, I think you will really appreciate the effects."

She sighs and gets up. She changes from her clothes to her sleep shorts and a t-shirt as walks back into the living room and finds Ann talking to Dembe.

Red peeks an eye open as he hears Lizzie talking with Ann as they re-enter the bedroom.

She tenses and Red tells her to relax. He puts a hand on her thigh and she calms. She can't clasp it because he has acupuncture needles in his hands. A deep breath in is all she gets before she closes her eyes and nods.

She feels a slight pull on her skin and makes a noise in the back of her throat. She hears his chuckle and he starts to recount the first time he had this done while he was off meditating in Yunnan. She focused on the sound of his voice and forgets why it is she is anxious as she feels a slight pinch once again. His fingers slip up her thigh and back down again, and it's soothing and the deep quality of his voice is what finally does her in as she slips into a light sleep.

Red watched his acupuncturist as she placed two needles on either side of Lizzie's wrist, the side of her foot, her shins, and between her brows. He finds it reassuring as she avoids her feet. He read information that told him the nerve endings on her feet were far more sensitive now and if there were too many acupuncture needles in that region it could trigger early labor. Though they were both still quite apprehensive and nervous about the situation they found themselves in, she was turning over a new leaf and warming to the idea the more stories he told about his past. And she was certainly becoming bolder in asking instead of waiting for him to reveal his past to her. He mentally shook his head and stepped out of his memories as he watched Ann grab her last acupuncture needle.

"How far along?" Ann asked.

Red recalculated the days and double checked as he watched the woman lift Lizzie's shirt and she probed her flat stomach.

"12 weeks, 3 days," he says. "I don't need to remind you that you are to tell no one of this information. You, Dembe, myself, and Mr. Kaplan are the only ones who know of this."

Ann nodded.

She wouldn't be here if he didn't trust her to keep this private information private.

He watches as she pauses and lifts the last little needle and he tilts his head as she pricks one into Lizzie's abdomen.

"It will not harm the baby," she tells him as she looks up and finds his brows pinched despite the needle he has in the middle. "Relax and let the endorphins work."

Red settles back against his side of the bed and he removes his hand from Lizzie's thigh.

"Fifteen minutes and I will take them out," Ann tells him. "Then I will take yours."

Red closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. He might as well get a nap in as well. He heard the door close and with her constant, steady breathing pattern, he slipped into a light doze.

True to her word, Ann came back fifteen minutes later and his eyes popped open. He watched carefully as she removed the acupuncture needles and readjusted Lizzie's shirt. When she placed the needles back on the tray, she moved to the edge of the bed and unravels a blanket, pulling it up and over the sleeping young woman.

"Thank you," Red says gratefully.

Ann nods.

"Now you," she smiles.

He closes his eyes and feels an occasional prick as a needle exits one of his more sensitive parts.

"She should feel the effects when she wakes," Ann tells him. "She may be unsteady, not used to the rush of endorphins, but this should help dissipate the symptoms. It will work on the queasiness but it cannot help with the food she eats, so make sure she knows that."

"We've experienced the food," he notes.

"Call me again two more times and it should relieve any symptoms she experiences," she tells him.

"Thank you, Ann," he says seriously.

"Congratulations, Mr. Reddington," Ann bows slightly and he returns it with a brief bow of his head.

Instead of sleeping as he usually does, he finds a book of poetry and loses himself in the words of those that came before him. Two hours later, she finally wakes and he has another volume of poetry in his hand and Hudson at the foot of the bed.

"How do you feel?" He asked.

"Strange," she says. "But fine."

"Don't get up too fast," he tells her.

"What happened?" she asks.

"You got your wrist, shins, sides of your feet, between your brow, and your belly acupunctured."

"The baby?" she asks suddenly.

"Is fine," he reassures her. "I watched the entire thing."

She lifts her shirt and tries to find where Ann had placed the needle but it was minuscule and she wonders if Red was making it all up. She thinks maybe she can see it, the mark, and she points to a spot and he shakes his head. He closes the poetry book without marking his place and leans over. His calloused finger sends a rush of warmth through her as he places his finger an inch away from her belly button.

"Here," he says.

She moves her finger next to his and his fingers skate down the soft skin as she opens her mouth ever so slightly and he holds in a smirk as he hears her breathing quicken. They've always been affected by each other's touches, but especially her.

"I can't see it," she relents.

"You're not supposed to, my dear," he chuckles. "Come, I'll make us some soup and you can finally show me what you're unconsciously craving," he tells her.

She frowns but knows its true. And she moves slowly because although she doesn't feel queasy, her head feels heavier and she doesn't miss that he's at her side and offering her his elbow. She takes it gratefully and leans into him as he stations her outside the washroom and shrugs her robe over her shoulders before they and Hudson make their way to the kitchen.

* * *

Donald Ressler trusts Meera Malik with his life. Not only is she an extremely intelligent agent and a tremendous asset but she is quite personable once you get underneath the exterior of Meera Malik, CIA agent.

Her daughter was cute and petite, like the woman he knew, and he knew that she was probably just as strong as her mother.

What he didn't expect was to find them inside his apartment with Meera's daughter on his couch and reading a book while Meera herself was at the kitchen table.

"Do I even want to ask how you got in here?" He asked.

"Probably not," she gave him a brief smile and tapped at the manila envelope and the picture on top.

"Where'd you get this?" She asked.

It was the picture of Elizabeth Keen he had been sent from Reddington. Although he had burned the envelope, he had kept the picture. He didn't know why he did. He couldn't explain it.

"Why?" He asked. His hands went to his hips and he made a defensive posture.

"I ask because it is recent," she says as she taps the snow in the foreground and background. She always has been too observant for her own good. "So I ask again, where did you get it?"

"It came in my mail," he shrugged. "One day I came home and it was stuffed in the box."

"Return address?" She asked

He hesitated and she nodded.

"Knowing Reddington, it was probably fake. I should tell you that Cooper told me to investigate on a different level than just the FBI," Meera said. "But I can't because he told me I shouldn't tell you this at all. And I shouldn't show you this folder that I do not have."

Meera stood up and rapped on the wooden table with her knuckles twice.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks.

"Because, like you, Liz is my friend and there's something not right about this whole investigation."

"You put her on the most wanted list," Ressler said.

"Cooper put her there," she shook her head. "You actually think Liz is going to get caught? Reddington had to turn himself in, in order for us to finally catch him. He shows up at locations he knows we have people and cameras watching because he knows he's untouchable. Think about it, Ressler."

"Where will they go next?" He asks. He finally sits and takes the folder from her side of the table. It's thin nut he's sure what it lacks in weight makes up for in substance.

"I don't know. There's very little chatter right now about Reddington, like there usually is," she shrugs. "There's a possibility of them still being in Europe but Europe is large and although Reddington has a lot of enemies there he does have more allies, and well paid allies at that. They will protect him and Liz unless the bid is higher and the government doesn't have enough to counter what Reddington pays his people."

"Do you profile?" He asks.

"Like Liz? No. But were all taught at the agency. I'm not as capable as Liz was but I can hold my own," she says. "Why?"

"I have access to the safe house they used. If you profile them, we can find them," he says.

"And what? Send them a message? Tell them it sounds fishy?" Meera wonders. "They already know this, it's why they left."

"I just need to talk to Liz in person," he says.

Meera sizes him up and seemingly profiles his reasons without speaking of them. She nods.

"Fine. This week. Cooper can't know about any of this."

"You won't hear any complaints from me," Ressler shrugged.

He hears her gather his daughter and gives them a half attempted goodbye as he opens up the envelope.

He sighed as he looked at the pictures in front of him. He didn't expect Red to be a dog person but there he was, walking along the Seine with Liz and her dog. What was interesting to him were the pictures of a meet. The fedora on her head, how close they were sitting. He turned his nose up at the pictures where they were seen sharing a meal. He had his proof that she had grown close to him. But that didn't mean he still didn't want to talk to her face to face. Perhaps that would be the only thing that once and for all shut down his nervous mind. Something was fishy about this whole situation and he couldn't help but wonder what side he was going to side with when it came down to revealing all the cards.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found it to be that time when he usually found her trying to quietly shut the door so she could have some privacy as she relieved her queasy stomach. As he almost automatically reached for his glasses, he notices there's still a warm lump of blankets beside him with a hand sticking out where her head should be. He pulls back the blanket from her face and is relieved to find her asleep instead of trying to disappear from the constant venture from the bed to the washroom. Her breaths and deep and even which gives him another internal sigh of relief. As her face is exposed to the changing temperature of their room, she huddles closer in an unconscious move and she finds his shoulder. It may kill him in the morning but her little mewl of approval she makes unconsciously will somehow make it all worth it. He breaths her in, the fresh smell of shampoo, detergent, and something uniquely Elizabeth Keen before he shuts his racing mind down for another few hours.

* * *

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't like mentions of his birthday. No cards, no presents, no wishing of a happy day. It was the second year of chasing his blacklist suspects when she found out he didn't like the day in particular. She hadn't been there on his first birthday when he brought them the list; she remembers she, Ressler, and Meera had to go to Florence for some intelligence. Surprisingly, he stayed behind. When they had gotten back, that year she had finally simply wished him a happy birthday. Those two words nothing more, she saw a flash of sadness steal across his face as he had thanked her. But she had seen the effort he took into forming those two words. She had left the present she had spent almost half a paycheck on, on top of a stack of books in the corner, giving both him and her a way out of the emotional entanglement she had accidentally stepped into. It was a mixed bag of emotions the next day when he came into the post office, straightening his cuffs-subtly showing off her gift he had indeed opened-as he stood next to her and began to relate a tale of how he had met the next name on the blacklist.

She didn't miss the fact he often wore the cufflinks on holidays, when he knew he'd see her outside the Post Office. She had actually picked them up in Florence. It was a down day while they waited for the go ahead from their superiors and so she spent the time exploring. Red had given her a list of places to eat, where to shop if she so desired, and told her if she dropped his alias at one of the fancier hotels, she'd have the room he usually stayed at and they would simply bill his open account. She hadn't stayed there but she did have a meal there and the smile alone when she returned to the States to relay her trip there, outside the "boring" work details, cemented the fact a new leaf was turning for them. She had seen the cufflinks in a jewelry store display window. Well, she had seen a pair that looked like something he would wear and then when she stepped inside, she was instantly drawn to the ones she eventually bought. They were small circular links with a green sort of stone that was dull but bright at the same time. But it wasn't just one kind of green, no, it was a multitude with intermixing of amber yellows and mahogany browns. She thought they would look rather fetching with his white suit or his forest green or even his rich brown one he had recently bought. She shook her head and wondered when she had started to notice his suits and how it is she noticed him more when he wore the cuts and colors she preferred. The stones were inlayed in a platinum fitting and when she was able to hold the cufflinks, she was surprised at how little they weighed. In her mind she gasped at the price but she handed over her card. It wasn't like she didn't have the funds, it was just that would be half her paycheck. And she wasn't even sure that he would like them.

Today felt different when she woke up. It wasn't her birthday, it was his. Yet she feels a sort of change in the air. The other side of the bed is warm, inching on cool and she slides her hands over the sheets and stretches before getting up. She thanked whoever was listening that she had finally ended her constant sickness and queasy days at the mere mention or smell of certain foods. Both moving to a second trimester and the acupuncture worked miracles. As she moved to the bathroom to conduct her morning business, she finished, washed her hands, and shrugged on her robe. She frowned as she noticed his blue one was still off the hook. Typically he was already dressed before she woke. Perhaps this was the changing leaf sort of thing that pressed on her.

She made her way to the kitchen and found the blue robed individual standing over the stove watching both a pan and a hot water kettle.

"Morning," he said without turning around.

"Morning," she parroted. She slid onto the stool just around the side of the kitchen counter he was nearest to and leaned into the high back of the stool. She appreciated the view, him standing there in his pajamas and robe, his black framed glasses on, and he ran a hand over the back of his head as he heard the stool squeak.

"How are we?" he asked. He briefly turned to watch her give him a hint of a smile.

"We're well," she laughed. Her hand automatically shifted to the slight, barely there swell of her belly and the V of the robe where the belt lay tied, and kept her hand there. "I think the sickness has finally disappeared once and for all."

He nodded. He was also grateful for this. She claimed there was no need for him to be up with her in the wee hours of the morning but she had stopped protesting the same week she had started when he slid down the wall next to her with a glass of water and a package of saltines. It had been this same routine every two hours previous to the acupuncture and afterwards it only happened when she ate foods that she later didn't appreciate but blamed it on the baby not liking it.

She sighed as she looked over at Red pouring oatmeal into two bowls.

He watched as her lips frowned and he chuckled.

"I wish real cravings would set in," she said as she watched him take a handful of blueberries and deposited into one of the bowls. He added raspberries to her own and sprinkled chocolate chips into the hot meal. She had bouts of it here and there-it's why he added the raspberries and chocolate chips to her oatmeal-but so far they were few and far between.

"Why?" He asked.

"So I have a legitimate excuse not to eat oatmeal or smoothie every morning," she sighed and grabbed her spoon as he chuckled.

He turned back to the stove and poured the hot water into a tea kettle. Two cups and loose leaf tea were already poised to accept the scalding water to steep.

She leaves her perch and goes round to the other side of the counter and brings their bowls to the table and watches out of the corner of her eye as he carries the tea tray and a newspaper and sits down next to her rather than across from her.

Their silence is only punctuated by flipping of the pages as he reads the paper and she occasionally scrapes against her bowl.

"Are you ready?" She asks through an almost finished mouthful of oatmeal. Although she despises the stuff, he makes a good bowl and what he adds seems to please her palate.

He shrugs but she reads the micro expression of happiness and worry on his face. She feels that if he were to ask the same of her, he'd get the same response.

She opened her mouth to stutter out an apology but her beat her to it.

"I think Dembe knew exactly what he was doing when he scheduled this exam," he tells her. It's a sign he doesn't think she's in on whatever Dembe has up his sleeve... if he has anything. Red is sure he does; Dembe never does anything without a lot of forethought.

She taps the empty spoon against her lips and hums in agreement.

"Do you want to find out or…" she trails off.

"Do you?" he answers her question with a question.

She nods and he mirrors it.

The rest of the morning meal is shared in silence. The occasional clink of a spoon and a sip of tea is the only real sound they make. She looks at him and doesn't find him getting lost in his own head but that doesn't mean she's safe from his turn inward. After all, its happened after the appointments rather than before.

As he washes their dishes he hears the clutter of paper and knows she's finding the puzzle for him. When he's finished he clears the counter and he pours an extra cup of tea for himself and hands her a tall glass of water as she leans against the bench of the breakfast nook, watching him work on the crossword of the day.

* * *

When he walks into the house later that afternoon, he's greeted by Hudson. He automatically leans down and pats the dog on the head. In return, Hudson ventures to the kitchen hoping for scraps or food. Red digs out the latter from the cupboard and listens for any sign of the other occupant. When he finds none, he checks his watch and notes the time. As he turns and surveys the room, he noticed something is off. He thought he smelled spice and vanilla but the odor was too faint for him to detect so he put it down to the hotel making something. Shaking his head of his thoughts and phantom odors, he makes sure Hudson's water bowl is filled and the dog is satisfied.

He leaves Hudson happily chowing down on his food as he slips down the halls and to the bedroom. He frowns when he notices the dark fabric over the usual white billowy curtains and the doors leading outside are shut rather than open like they typically have when napping in the afternoon sun. He's only slightly put off the fact she's decided to siesta without him there. She has expressly told him he was to leave with Dembe today when the latter did the afternoon shopping. He hadn't wanted to but backed down when she turned on him. He had made a comment she had already got the scolding mother look down and that broke her tough resolve.

He undoes his cufflinks and steps out of his dress pants and dress shirt, hanging them on a hanger knowing full well they had an appointment later tonight. As he carefully-so as not to wrinkle-gets mostly undresses, he takes in her form. Instead of being under the sheets or blankets, she simply lay on top of the sheets with the blankets at her feet. She's dressed in one of his day-old dress shirts and yoga tights that hug her lean figure. Instead of facing the doors like she typically did, she was facing towards his side of the bed and he put two and two together, knowing she was most likely trying to sleep off a migraine.

He can't help the bed dipping but that doesn't seem to wake her as she slumbers on, unaware of the fact he's crawling in. She's almost rolled onto her stomach and he thinks maybe it's not such a good idea to lay in that position now. He's been trying to rid her of the habit but clearly when she's alone in their bed she defaults back to her same sleeping patterns. So when he's made himself comfortable in the light blankets, tossing one over their bodies, he reaches over and makes sure she's tucked up against his side. His arm wraps around her waist and his fingers unconsciously unfurl over her belly. He can't feel anything different than what he's used to. She's not that far along and knows she's not supposed to feel anything for weeks. Nor is she particularly large in size. There is a small swell but not enough to really be noticeable. At least, if he remembers how it was with his first wife and how she didn't start to really show until well into her eighteenth week.

As he wrapped an arm around her and kept her from rolling onto her stomach, she smelled of the same spicy scent. He smiled into her hair as he discovered her secret. She had wanted him out because she had baked. He pressed his chilled nose into her warmed skin and she shifted sleepily away but didn't get far with his hold. He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed to deep and even breaths before Hudson made his way through the room and lay on the rug at the foot of the bed.

* * *

The clinic had only one other patient again in the waiting room. But she should have expected this since they're the last appointment of the day. This time Dembe doesn't have to go in search of an open market for good but elects to stay out of the clinic.

She's weighed and measured by the technician once again before sitting on the table as the younger man leaves to call upon the doctor.

Red takes off his coat and lays it the on the back of the chair reserved for a non patient like himself but he elects to stand. After all, this appointment should be quicker than the last.

She reaches for his hand as he stands beside her in favor of up against the wall. She smiled to herself as she noticed his cufflinks. She hadn't seen him all day except for this morning and after their afternoon nap. This morning she had been in the shower when he had eventually dressed and when she had woken after her nap and found him next to her, his dress shirt and pants were hanging on a hanger by their open bedroom door.

She twirls is once and he clears his throat so she looks up at him.

"I wear them every birthday," he says quietly.

A smile flits over her features and she nods once.

A knock at the door and Red's answer finds her staring at the doctor once again. Of course the last time she had seen her had been six weeks ago but the woman had obviously been studying the English language in the past six weeks.

There's a pause and Liz looks to Red as he looks at her.

"What?" She asks.

"She asked how you were feeling," he tells her.

"Oh," Liz whispers. She clears her throat and her fingers absently play with Red's own.

His quick nod is a slight comfort.

"Fine," she tells the doctor. "Migraine this morning."

The doctor frowns and Red comes up short with the Portuguese equivalent. So, Liz does the only thing she can: improvises and puts her free fingers on her temple and pinches her face.

Apparently that must be the universal signal for headache because the doctor nods in understanding.

Broken English and hand gestures are used by the doctor to get Liz to lay down and ready herself for the ultrasound. As the doctor turns to wash her hands, Liz lets go of Red and he stands back a few steps to not get in the way of either the doctor or the machine she's starting to wheel over towards the bed.

He watches as Lizzie lays on the exam table and the doctor begins with a small sorry as her chilled hands touch Liz's warm skin. Liz ignores the pressure against her bladder as the doctor examines her with her hands and she knows from her reading that the doctor is feeling where the baby is at growth wise. The doctor nods and writes something down on the file she has at the edge of the exam table and reaches for the gel for the sonogram. The smell of the gel hit both their noses as Lizzie bunched her shirt at the start of her ribcage. He watches Lizzie as her brows furrow slightly and she pushes out a silent but deep breath.

The doctor uses broken English and a mix of Portuguese and Red translates only a few phrases she doesn't comprehend. He knows when this happens because her brow furrows slightly and her lips purse ever so slightly as she tries to mask her confusion. Sometimes he thinks he should have thought about the language barrier. Perhaps they should have gone somewhere English was the dominate language; or at least to one of his safehouses where he could get a doctor who he trusted to look after her and knew English. But alas here they are and both the doctor and Lizzie are looking at him, almost patiently waiting for a response.

"The baby," Liz says. "I think she wants to know if we want to know."

Red looks at her and their brief second of eye contact seems to stretch as green meets blue. He watches as she bites the inside of her lip. He doesn't know if he wants to know; but he knows she does. So, he nods. He can hear her slight hitch in her breathing and he thinks that he made the right decision. He doesn't miss her squeezing his hand in a slight thanks.

"Menina," the doctor says. She translates in a thick accent. "Girl."

The doctor was pointing at the screen but Liz turned to watch Red as he focused on the black and white screen. She kept waiting for Red to do something, anything. The twitch of his thumb against her hand was the only reaction she got.

He suddenly clears his throat and she turns her head and listens to their voices as Red exchanges with the doctor.

She doesn't understand what he's asked the doctor but the woman nods and he only watches as she hands Liz a few tissues to wipe her stomach of the gel. Once again, Red has a pocket square in his pocket. But instead of handing it to Lizzie, he silently asks her permission with a simple gesture of his hand. She nods and can't help but flit her eyes between his hands and the intense concentration on his face.

His warm fingers trace almost lightly over her stomach. He's always been so much more tactile than her and she wonders why he's never touched her like this before. Well, at least not that she's known. She's sure he touches her while she's asleep; she wakes up with his palm under her shirt more often than not. But he's never touched her like this and she is craving the simple contact; the light touch of his fingers against her sensitive skin. His touch is brief and he quickly changes direction and begins to pull down her shirt, leaving her to roll up and button her pants when she's in a sitting position. His finger dips to her chin and brings her chin up to face him as she slowly sits up and he tries to convey a brief, reassuring smile.

Before she can get anything out, the doctor comes back and hands him a single sonogram and an envelope to her. She frowns slightly but takes the small envelope.

The doctor leaves the room and leaves the door open, signaling the end of their appointment.

"Dinner?" he asks as he shrugs on his jacket.

"Sure," she nods. She doesn't miss the fact he's stuffed the sonogram into his vest pocket. She'll have to remember to go over his pockets before he does the laundry. She's still sure they're missing one from their last stack but she hasn't been able to find it and thinks that maybe now she knows exactly who took it.

She wonders when they're going to talk about this but she doesn't want to push. After all, he's already on the edge due to his birthday being today.

He lets her take his arm as they quietly make their way out of the clinic and into the awaiting car.

"Cravings?" He asked as Dembe drove them away from the clinic and into town.

"Isn't the one with the birthday supposed to pick the restaurant?" She asked. That's how it always was when Sam took her out to his birthday and she took him out later when she could afford it.

"Perhaps in a conventional birthday year but you are starting to crave some dinner things lately and I'd hate to disappoint," Red points out.

She thinks she hears Dembe laugh lowly.

"Pampas," she said finally.

"Beef stroganoff?" He guessed with a chuckle.

"Obviously she's yours. I've never tried beef stroganoff until two weeks ago and now I have cravings for it," she says in a hushed tone.

He wanted to point out it was a tentative she but deep down he knew it would be a girl. He had a feeling. It was striking how his second chance would be a real second chance. But he's still not sure if he's really ready. They need to talk about this but he doesn't want to burden her with his past and she doesn't want to step on any ghostly toes.

They arrive at Pampas moments later and are led to the private open air seating once Red dropped the name of the chef. Instead of the front where hoards of tourists sat waiting for service, they were led to a private side area. The crowded uproarious buzz of the restaurant seemed to almost drop to a low buzz as soon as they turned the corner.

Dembe tried to sit at a different table but as he was almost led away, Liz called out and walked the few paces he had escaped.

"It's his birthday," she says. As if that was explanation enough.

Dembe simply eyes her.

"You're family, too," she tells him.

It's when his eyes shift she smiles and dismisses the maitre de with a nod. She and Dembe move back a few paces to the table and she sits in the chair next to Red as Dembe takes the seat across from him. The hand that touches hers squeezes her fingers briefly in thanks and she knows although he doesn't like birthdays he does indeed think of Dembe as family, too.

It's strange watching Red drink a beer from tap but then she's seen much stranger things these days and she thinks his motto really is 'when in Rome.' It smells almost like coffee as it stands next to her water and the warm winds waft around them. She doesn't pretend to know about wine but she does know about beer, well, a small amount, but more so than her wine knowledge and knows by the looks of it Red certainly prefers the darker ales to the pale ones. Dembe's on the other side of the spectrum and prefers the pale ale. She can't smell his but he's also not sitting next to her.

As they order their food and hand over their menus, Red's arm goes to the back of her chair and his fingers brush against her bare skin on her upper arm as she leans back into her chair. It's reminiscent of the time he did the same motion to soothe her in the middle of Wujing's hideaway. If she leans towards him in her chair, he certainly doesn't say anything. The touch certainly lulls her into a comfortable zoned out mood and she is lulled into a further comfortable state listening to the sounds of Red and Dembe's voices as they exchange meaningless news to her about the criminal world. Somehow, she tunes back in as Red's voice mentions the appointment.

His fingers stop for a brief moment and she's left the envelope of sonograms in the car but Red takes the single one the doctor gave him out of his vest pocket and hands it over. She watches as Red takes a deep drink and then drags her eyes to try and gauge Dembe's reaction.

"A girl," he notes quietly.

"Indeed," Red nods.

But that's all there is time for. Dembe hands the sonogram back and she doesn't miss the look he gives both of them. Although she has no time to decipher it. The waiter comes back with another pint for Red and Dembe and a few minutes later brings their dinners with a pitcher of water to refill her own glass and Red's half empty one on the other side of his place setting.

Her beef stroganoff is piled on rice and she doesn't miss Red eying her plate. She pushes her plate towards him and he immediately takes the invitation before he digs into his meal. Even though he prefers noodles while she prefers rice, he'll take stroganoff any way its served to him.

Dembe's lamb chops smell delicious to her but she quells the urge to ask him for a sample since she doesn't even like lamb.

Red's choice of dish is probably the most surprising to her. It's a rack of ribs with fries and he's got a bib around his neck and sauce on his fingers. It's messy and nothing like he's ordered before but he's perfectly content and she

"Dembe's is better," Liz says as they both chew the stroganoff thoughtfully.

He nods in agreement. Dembe had made it one night a few weeks ago and although she initially turned her nose up at the mere name, she can't get enough of it now. He briefly wonders if she'll still be receptive to the idea of the dinner after she has the baby.

There is a long lull between the start of dinner and the end and she genuinely laughs a few times over Red's messy dinner. She steals his fries and swirls them in the leftover stroganoff on her plate and finds the taste to be spectacular. Red and Dembe give her a look but don't say a word as she continues.

The waiter asks if they want the dessert menu and Liz immediately says no.

Red tilts his head, as if trying to read the answer on her impassive face, but gets nothing. He turns to Dembe and his loyal friend has turned to the other side and sits with an amused expression on his face and says nothing.

Dembe drives them back to the villa and quietly takes Hudson for his nightly walk as Liz takes Red to the kitchen.

Dembe had done as she asked: she had borrowed the guest house as he and Red had gone grocery shopping to bake the single round sheet of spice cake and brought the cake to the table and stuck a red candle in the middle of the frosted cake as they had the ultrasound before picking them back up in time for dinner. She really did need to do something for the silent shadow of hers and Red's to thank him for everything he's done for them.

She pulled a lighter from her pocket-she bought it when she and Dembe went to the store-and the miniature lighter sparked a bright orange as it met with the wick of the single candle. There was a brief snap of her releasing the lighter and she whispered the instructions to make a wish.

She watched from across the table as the single candle flickered over his face. She leaned back in her chair and her hands were absently caressing her stomach from both her food baby she felt and the barely there bump of their own child. His eyes were dark and staring right into hers as he blew out the candle.

"You might not want to eat it," she told him. "I'm not the best cook."

He chuckled and took the candle from the frosting and set it aside.

"I'm sure you're not trying to poison me," he said as he swiped a finger through the frosting.

"No," she laughed. "I don't want to do this alone."

"We need to talk," he trails off.

"Tomorrow," she stops him. "Let's just... just... make the most of today."

He nods and she nods in return.

She feels his stare and moves around him to grab a fork.

"How'd you know about the spice cake?" he asks as she comes around to his side and offers up a single fork.

"Luli mentioned it once, actually," she said. "I saw this mix at the store with Dembe that actually had English directions and thought I'd give it a shot."

She watched as he stabbed his fork into the edge of the cake, gathering both the frosting and cake and sniffed it with a small smile before tasting it. He didn't spit it back out so one of her brows rose in question and he nodded.

"Not bad for an amateur," he said. "I'll have to teach you how to make it from scratch."

She shook her head and took a bite for herself. She silently hoped they wouldn't die of food poisoning or e-coli or salmonella or something by tomorrow morning. It was surprisingly good and whatever flavor of frosting Dembe had chosen at the store had paired well. And thinking of the man in question, he and Hudson walked through the door. The latter darted for Red's form and Red sat down on the stool and pat the dog's head. Liz grabbed Dembe his own fork and happily ate the cake without question and soon the single sheet eight inch round cake was more of a half eaten crumb and frosting mess in the pan.

Liz sided up to Red and he wrapped an arm around her waist, resting on her hips. She turned to half face him and bit her lip. She leaned down slightly, enough to brush her lips against his ear and whisper.

"Happy birthday, Raymond," she whispered.

She pulled back but he paused her movement with a subtle squeeze of his fingers against her hipbone. She leaned back down again and this time his nose brushed against her cheek as he whispered his thanks. And before she could move back to stand up straight, he captured her lips with his. It was far too brief and far too quick for either of their liking but Dembe was still present and Liz was still not terribly comfortable with Red's often brazen displays of affection.

* * *

"I'm going to need your thieving skills again, my dear," he tells her as they walk along the beach with Hudson.

"Madeline?" She asks as he tosses a stick to Hudson who walks in front of them.

"No," he says flippantly. "I haven't seen or heard from her in about a year. No doubt she's trying to keep tabs though."

She doesn't ask if it's dangerous because she knows that he's not going to put her in danger, especially these days. The day after his birthday, the day they were supposed to talk about the baby's gender, got lost in the fray. Dembe had relayed to Red that there was a problem with one of his accounts in the Caymans and Red went to deal with it personally. He had left her behind with Hudson and she didn't mind because he had called every morning and every evening. But he had left for two weeks, closing each Cayman account and opening one elsewhere. He was sure the FBI was watching him, at least electronically drain his accounts and didn't want her to be round up if anything went wrong with his money, especially now that Luli wasn't here to manage it. He trusted Dembe but money was never his strong suit so Red had to handle it personally.

Hudson brings back a wet stick and half of his furry hair is wet and sandy. She's shaken out of her thoughts as Hudson's tail thwacks her leg. Red leans to his side and she leans with him as she has an arm wrapped around his own and she was already leaning into him. Red tugs on the stick as Hudson bites down harder and growls before releasing it.

"Why is it dogs always fight you when you play fetch?" He asks rhetorically as Hudson releases it and tosses it again.

"What's the job?" She asks as she attempts to get him back on track.

"I have a bank account in Zurich; a safety deposit if we're being honest. I gave most of my identities to the FBI when I turned myself in. This account was one of them that I turned in."

"So, it's an old account?" she asks.

"Indeed," he nods.

"They're watching you?" She wonders.

"More like they'll know if I accessed the account," he tells her. "The Cayman accounts only held five to eight million each. The ones I've set up in the more secure banks that aren't in my name have a more significant number in terms of funds."

He knows she's never one to slowly connect the dots and she knows he's not telling her everything.

"So, what do you need from me?" She asks.

He stops her and they pause. Hudson circles around them and Red leans down to toss the stick one last time.

"There's an account there in your name. Well, an alias I gave to you. It's a few boxes below my own."

"What's so important that I have to get it?" She frowns as he tiptoes around the elephant in the room.

He looks down at their feet and he clears his throat.

"Some papers," he said as he looks up at her.

"I'm not going to risk my freedom for  _some_  papers," she says as she emphasizes the vagueness of his some. "And I know you won't either. So, what is so important?"

"Legal papers," he relents.

She bites her lip and notes his seriousness.

"How am I supposed to get in?" She wondered.

"If Madeline can get to one of my boxes without fuss, you can go in with little consequence. I have a copy of the master key and I will give you my own key to open my box," he says.

"What's in my box?" She asks..

"Money, papers to all my accounts, a note," he shrugs.

"What kind of note?"

"Feel free to open it up when you're inside," he says.

He whistles for Hudson as they make their way up the little cliff on their private alcove of the beach and back up to the villa.

"I'll make dinner," he says quietly.

She nods and lets go of his arm as they reach the patio.

"I'll clean him up," she nods.

"Lizzie," he calls out as she takes Hudson's collar in her grip as the dog attempts to follow him into the house with sand still embedded in his hair.

"I just need to think it over, Red," she tells him honestly.

He nods.

He leaves her to think over the information. He knows they'll have to talk about this. Just like they talk about other things. Its all quickly piling up and he knows she hasn't been sleeping well and it's not just because the baby.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Afterwards they sit at the table where the chess board is and he teaches her how to play. After months of asking, he's finally teaching her some productive countermoves and she is quickly becoming a formidable opponent for him when she is actually paying close attention to the game. But they're both distracted and he takes her key pieces away in a matter of moments.

"I'll do it," she says suddenly.

He's distracted enough by the sudden agreement of his plan that she captures a pawn of his.

"You don't want to talk about it?" he asks.

"You want the papers and I have the ability to get them," she shrugs.

"We'll need to go back to DC," he says.

There's a pause in movement from her and she bring her hand down as it moves to move a piece of hers.

"I need Ressler's intel on Zurich to see what countermeasures we need to take," he tells her. "They have most likely changed it since I got away with all my money and gave them the slip in the Caymans."

"We're going home?" she asks.

He nods and doesn't miss that she still calls DC home. Even after nine weeks of being here.

He checkmates her soon enough and she frowns. He sets up another round but she yawns and he suggests she heads to bed for the night. She nods without question and as she passes, he places a hand on her waist and he thumbs the material of her shirt. He whispers a goodnight and she repeats his sentiment.

A few hours later she realizes it's not warm enough to be out here in the shorts and pajama top she wears but he has yet to come to bed and she finds she can't sleep without him tonight. He's sipping on a watered down drink she assumes is scotch when her hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up and gives a twitch of a smile as he finds her hair sleep mused and her sleepy eyes looking down at him.

"Where's Dembe?" She asks.

"Most likely sleeping. Like I thought you would be doing," he tells her.

He moves over and she moves to sit. She sighs quietly and her shoulders brush against his own as she leans against the back of the chair.

She knows when he's like this, she usually has to initiate the conversation. He'll keep it going but he needs a baseline for what he needs to get off his chest. She studies his profile and notes that he looks like she feels. At this point, he probably feels like he's in the Inferno, crawling up the down and getting nowhere. It's both their faults. She's been in her own head and hasn't really gotten a chance to speak with him much unless it had been by phone. She's the profiler and he's the one with years of experience of reading people and here they are in the twilight finally finding time to speak.

There's a way to get Raymond Reddington to tell his truths. Its been a long and hard fought battle over the years but she can occasionally get into his head and let him speak his truths. However much he wants to distance himself from his past, he cannot. Its a part of him, one that he thinks she resents about him but she doesn't and truthfully doesn't know how many times it's going to take her to tell him that and have it stick in his heart.

She honestly doesn't know where to start tonight. So she does the one thing that they both can relate to: she places his watery scotch on the table in front of them and takes her hand in his, and then places both their hands on her waist. She's grown and although it isn't significant, it's discernible now when she in tighter clothing like she is now and she closes her eyes and his thumb begins to rub up and down the material of her shirt.

"They're the second thing I think about," he tells her quietly. Its almost a whisper if it wasn't for the crack in his voice when he breaks on the word second. "She's second."

Her mind goes into overdrive quickly to try and catch up and when she does, she can't help the tears that form. She knows if she opens her eyes, he will see them and its not pity as much as it is understanding despite her lack of intimate knowledge about what it's like to lose the only people you've ever cared about. But she opens her eyes anyway and she finds him staring at his thumb.

"I once told Donald, after Audrey died, that there is nothing that can take the pain away, but eventually he'd find a way to live with it…. Everyday, when he wakes up it will be the first thing he thinks about. Until one day, it will be the second thing."

He works his jaw and she notices the tremor in his hand but doesn't say anything.

"I wrote it down because there was no way he'd ever believe a man who still woke up and the first thought was of his wife and daughter," Red says as he licks his lips. "He'd see my words for the lie it was at the time. Twenty odd years later and I can still smell the nape of my daughter's neck as she hugged me as I got home from work every night; the sigh my wife made as I ate a half a scoop more of orange sherbet after she'd already said no more."

The tear leaks out and she watches his free finger stop the progress of the salty tear track. He's not supposed to be the one comforting her. Its supposed to be the other way around.

"When Dembe and I were gone, the first full day," he clarifies, "My first thought wasn't of them."

He looks her in the eye as he continues. Watery blue meets green and she thinks that maybe the red-rimmed eyes aren't only from exhaustion.

"I thought of you and of her," he confesses as he looks at her and then draws their eye line down to their hands as they rest on her stomach. "I lay on the bed that morning and imagined you next to me. I thought of the way you hog the sheets and blankets and create a cocoon for yourself and how I think one day you'll end up suffocating yourself and hope she doesn't get that same trait. And how you stretch and that little popping sound your toes make as you walk from the bed to the washroom. How your hand, every morning, despite being apprehensive of all of this, goes to your stomach. And that little smile you get when I greet you in the kitchen with your least favorite breakfast but eat in anyway."

She opens her mouth to form some sort of response but he speaks again. He feels guilty about this and its almost a confession to her and an apology to his wife and child at the same time. She needs to get out what's been bothering her, too. Before it crushes them both.

"I didn't think I'd ever follow my own advice," he whispers.

"I never want to replace them," she confesses. "I don't..."

She bites the inside of her cheek and waits for him to look at her.

"Is it horrible that I wished for a boy so we weren't thought of as a replacement family?" she asks him. "What if she knows I wanted her to be a boy so bad that she ends up hating me."

"I don't think I'll ever think of you as a replacement, Lizzie. A second chance, perhaps. But never a replacement." He removes his hand from her stomach and takes her hand instead. He tightens his grip before speaking. "And our child could never hate you. If you choose to take one thing from tonight, take that much."

She thinks if she repeats this, maybe she'll start to believe it, too.

"My wife was nothing like you, you know," he tells her. She thinks he's giving her this in an attempt to have her believe she's not a replacement but a second love. After all, he believes in those kinds of things whereas she is a little more apprehensive about who she gives her heart to, especially after Tom. Although, this man knows he's wormed his way in over the years; he's carved his own little space that only keeps growing at an exponential level each time he lets her in further. She loves him but can't say the words yet. But she knows deep down that he knows. She listens intently as he continues. "You're strong and smart in different ways. She was definitely more artistic and a much better cook."

She laughs because if she doesn't she'll start to cry and she hates that she can do that seemingly at the drop of a hat these days.

"I'll tell you of them one day," he says. And she thinks that maybe that means what happened, or what he knows happened. And she knows that she's not emotionally ready for that tonight.

"Everything is going to be okay," she says as she leans into him and wraps her arms around him.

He hugs her back tightly and fiercely. He sure as hell hopes so because he doesn't know what he'll do if another chance is taken from him.

She shivers and he suggests that they move to the bedroom. The confessions have led them both the emotional exhaustion and he thinks perhaps he'll still be in bed with her when she wakes. Or at least he feels like he could sleep for years. And if looks are anything to go by, she can as well.

And as he predicts, the next morning, she hits a warm human shaped wall as she sleepily shifts. It's automatic these days to shift to his side of the bed and settle in his warmth as he leaves the bed. But today is different as she finds out. Instead of an empty side of the bed she pries opens her eyes and finds him still asleep. She curls into him. Her head tucks between his chin and his shoulder and she tucks her chilly hands between them. She's glad he's wearing a shirt because her hands are a little chillier than the rest of her. And she takes it as a good sign when his arm automatically wraps around her. She finds she can definitely sleep for a few hours more. She just hopes Dembe can take care of a rambunctious Hudson today.

* * *

She bites her lip and leans into him as they wait for Dembe to bring the car around. She doesn't question how Dembe always seems to find a car to drive but this is home and she thinks maybe he called one of his contacts.

"You okay?" he asks.

It was a long flight from Albufeira to Barcelona and then Barcelona to Reagan but they had to take commercial to find out if their covers-her cover, really-could withstand the test. And he didn't want his new tail number out for all the government agencies to see. He could hide in plain sight but the plane was a bit harder. He knew it would pass inspection, otherwise he wouldn't have risked taking her with him. But she was the one who wanted to make sure.

"We're fine," she said. "Hungry but fine."

"Can we get Beltway Burgers?" she asks.

He nods and she leans into him just as Dembe pulls up to the curb.

"Where are we going?" she asks as Dembe loads their few bags and Red holds the back door open for her and Hudson.

"You and Hudson will be heading to a house Mr. Kaplan has set up outside DC. Dembe and I will need to contact Donald tonight if we're going to try and spend only a few days here," he tells her.

"Mr. Kaplan is in town?" she asks with slightly narrowed eyes.

"As a friend," he says.

"Fine," she nods and gets into the car.

At the burger place, Mr. Kaplan meets them and drives Hudson and Liz to the house while Red and Dembe go to the one place they know they'll find Donald Ressler tonight.

He thought it was surprising that all the trips Donald had made to the Hampstead house went unnoticed by the FBI. It was still not under surveillance even after all these months. He checked and double checked his favorite house for any bugs before he even thinks about bringing Lizzie back here.

He waits in the shadows as he hears the locks being picked and the floorboard just to the side of the door creak as a weight is placed on it. He nods his head and holds in an amused grin as he hears careful footsteps. The footsteps halt as his shadowy figure is traced by the observant man and that's when Red lets out a hollow laugh as he steps out of the shadows and into the streetlight.

"Hello, Donald," he says. His jaw moves on its own accord, stretching and working itself as it releases some of the tension he's had on his shoulders since he told Lizzie they'd see each other later tonight.

"Reddington," Ressler whispers. He drops his hands that were poised and ready to draw his nonexistent firearm up to the intruder. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Red nods his head and plasters a smile on his face and then drops it for a more serious expression.

"I need your help," he says.

Ressler narrows his eyes in skepticism but with Red holding out his hand to have them move towards the couch to sit, he knows the older man is serious. Donald thinks perhaps this favor might buy him the one thing he's wanted.


	8. Chapter 8

Red missed the Hempstead house, if he really thought about it. As Dembe flipped on a light switch from his post just outside the sitting room, he caught sight of the still cluttered mess the house will probably always be in. As he watched Donald inch closer, he finally took off his coat. He and Dembe hadn't been here that long when Dembe told him the younger man was here. Dembe appears at his side out of nowhere-he must have been in his head to not notice the other man move-and Red hands his coat and fedora off to his bodyguard. He sat down the seat Lizzie usually sat in when they spent time here; the opposite cushion of his own on the end.

Red watched as Donald Ressler cautiously took the single chair that Liz has used her very first time at the house. Red recalled she had only used that seat once or twice. The next time, and all the times after that, she sat in the one he sits in now. He noticed, as he sat, the books she often stashed to read next were still scattered on the middle cushion that was usually between them. He took the closest book in his hands and settled it on his lap as he waits for Donald to settle.

"Dembe, would you bring us two jars and whatever the hell that stuff is dear old Frederick has laying around this place?" Red says to break the silence.

Dembe nods and goes to the office where most of the manuscripts Frederick wrote had been organized by Red. The once cluttered area was now almost pristine with stacks of papers now bound in volumes and placed on shelves. He remembers days where Liz and Red would come in here after a particularly awful blacklister and would work together, sorting through the comical insights of the long passed writer/waiter. Red would read some of the letters to the editor he thought were hilarious and occasionally Dembe would hear a clipped feminine laugh before the same voice told the jovial Red to get back to work. Two jars were already there but he still went for the kitchen after grabbing the milky volume of alcohol between the dirtied glasses. He wasn't sure how well it would go over if either one of the men went to take a sip and found Liz's lipstick on one jar. He re-enters the sitting room with the two "glasses" and the bottle. He notices Red's hands are glued to the book in his lap so Dembe pops the seal on the bottle and pours some of the milky looking alcohol into one small mason jar. He looks over at the FBI agent and he shrugs; Dembe pours him one, too.

Ressler looks Red over with a cautious eye as he takes the glass from Dembe.

"Where's Liz?" He asks as he noticed she had yet to make an appearance from the shadows.

"Safe," Red supplied.

"Reddington," Donald tried.

"She's not here in this house," Red tells him.

"But she's here," Ressler follows.

Red simply gives him a blank look. He knows whatever is between the two agents keeps Ressler from tattling. It's not love but more of a respect that runs deeper than mere friendship. There's a certain amount of trust required for a partnership, especially one that deals with the dangerous criminals of the world. Ressler learned to accept her in the beginning; he needed her. Months later, Ressler had learned to trust her and even backed her a few times when Red hadn't been there to look out for her himself. He wanted Liz on his team now. Its this trust in Liz that keeps this sort of give and take between the notorious criminal and the FBI agent going after all these years. Its not so much Liz needs protecting by both of them, but they've made a sort of pact that keeps her safe without her knowing… or if she does, she's turned a blind eye to it all these years. This is why Donald has yet to inform anyone, besides Meera, that this is the safest of his safe houses.

"I noticed you have taken down two blacklisters," Red mentions off hand. "Congratulations."

Ressler watches as Red slowly reached up to the knot of his tie and loosens the material ever so slightly. He stares at the older man and reads between the lines as well as his face. He's no profiler like Liz nor is he adept at torture like Meera. But he is a seasoned agent and was once the leading expert on Reddington. However, he's long given up that role to the woman that is usually by his side. He's tired. Of what, Donald's not sure of. But Reddington is tired and masking it well to those who don't know him.

"Why are you here, Reddington?" Ressler asks.

"Once again," Red pauses and leans towards him in the slowest wave of movement, "I need you help."

"With?" Ressler interjects.

"If it were so easy, I'd drop by on a whim to your apartment," Red chuckled.

Ressler leaned back heavily against the chair back. He spins the jar of milky looking liquid in his hands.

Red touches the spine of the book he holds and looks at the cover. It's E.E Cummings. Certainly Frederick had more interesting authors on his shelf but she likes a little poetry mixed in with the finer, more classical writing. He sips the almost fermented alcohol and coughs. Its still strong and still god awful.

"Tell me about this new boss," Red says. He shrugged his shoulders back and leaned into the couch. "The shadowy figure Cooper now answers to."

Ressler's brows pinch and furrow slightly before Red's eyes narrow. Of course Raymond Reddington knows the inner workings of the FBI. After all, he turned himself in on Liz's first day. How would he know if he wasn't in tune with every step the FBI made.

"Connelly?" Ressler asks.

"The new AG," Red nods. "The FBI's become his personal police service. I want to know who he is and what his motivations are."

"I don't," Ressler started.

"Donald, you don't give yourself enough credit," Red tells him. "Aram may be able to hack into his computer and Meera can torture him for information, but you're observant. You see patterns. Why else would they take you out of the pool of FBI agents and put you at the head of the Reddington task force if you weren't able to track my patterns of movement."

Ressler's quiet after that. Just for a moment. With Reddington it's always been a backhanded compliment. He looks for a trace of the sarcasm he usually finds in Red's words but can't find anything this time around. It's strange. Worrisome. Nice, if he really had to think about it.

"The first thing he did was request all of your case files," Ressler said finally.

Red's jaw squared and he tipped the alcohol back. It burned his throat but he needed something to do.

"You know it takes months to vet people for clearance for the Post Office; with the exception of Liz when you requested her. So, he didn't know about the Post Office for a few weeks. But when he got clearance to come to the Post Office, he went though all of Cooper's files," Ressler recalls. "There were a lot of closed door meetings that week with Cooper and Connelly. But he was most interested in yours. He wanted to finally get his hands on the thing that saved Cooper's ass that one day they were kidnapped. Cooper tried giving him the box with the least amount of things we've been working on but he noticed there were seven burn boxes on you. The next day, you and Liz didn't show up for work."

Red chuckles and Donald wonders what he finds so funny.

"What?" Ressler asks.

"You haven't asked how I knew about Tom Connelly," Red noted.

Ressler gives him a look that he's tried for years. Red lets him win just this once because he does need Ressler's help.

"My adversaries do keep me appraised of some goings on," Red nods. "Though if they had all the information, you and I would have never seen each other except when we pass you because the task force is a minute too late."

"Adversaries?" Ressler asks. "The blacklist?"

"No," Red shakes his head. "Merely competition that I have a long standing agreement with on how to conduct business."

Ressler takes his first sip of the alcohol and it cuts through the nervous energy rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He's not so much nervous of Red as he is about what the man is eventually going to ask of him.

"Donald, do you remember the case with Ruth... uh, Ruth Kipling, the judge?" Red asks.

Ressler nods. Cooper still has Red to thank for saving his life.

"When Lizzie went to interrogate Cooper about his involvement, Tom Connelly was in his office. He knew about her; called her a dog with a bone," Red told him. "She asked if I knew who he was. Her gut said something was off about him. Of course, she was right."

"Liz interrogated Cooper?" Ressler asks. He squints with disbelief.

"You're missing the point here, Donald," Red tries to take him off the hunt of that particular over and done with sentiment.

"Liz was scared?" Ressler frowned.

"No," Red shook his head. "Not scared... worried. When we started this blacklist deal, 26 people knew I was detained, for lack of better word. The number has steadily increased over the years the more people start dropping dead."

"It's not my fault there are dirty agents," Ressler points out. He lets it go that he thinks maybe Raymond Reddington or any of his associates have killed these agents.

"No," Red concedes. "But the system is even more corrupt than you allow yourself to believe."

"So," Ressler says as he refuses to let the last sentiment sink in. "What do you need from me?"

Red sits in silence. Basking in the quiet familiarity of the Hempstead house. He loves the villa. He loves all his villas. But somehow this safe house would always be one of his favorites. He closes his eyes at the grandfather clock chiming at the half hour. No time like the present to fill Donald Ressler in on what he knows of the man who is hunting Lizzie to hunt him.

* * *

Mr. Kaplan's directive is yet again to keep Liz safe. The drive to wherever they were headed is made in silence. Liz almost dozes with the mix between her full stomach, the quiet classical music, and the constant speed of the car. Mr. Kaplan doesn't try and hold a conversation with her, almost sensing this state Liz finds herself in. Liz had only asked one question of the woman: where the house was. The house is just outside Fredericksburg and she thinks it's a bit overkill to be so close and yet so far away from their seemingly old lives. She briefly wonders if this is some kind of test to decide whether or not she's really ready to give up the life she had made here for the life she has with him.

They continue to drive for what seems like hours but could easily be fifteen minutes when they hit the outskirts of the cookie cutter neighborhoods and the seemingly idyllic town. She only knows this because the streetlights have all but disappeared, as have the sidewalks lining either side of the street. She watches out the window as Mr. Kaplan hits the bright beams of the car and the darkening distance of the road in front of them is illuminated. After a while, the car pulls into a long paved road. They get to what Liz assumes is an empty cul de sac and Mr. Kaplan maneuvers the car onto a road Liz can't see in the dark. Its a while until she can see where the paved road meets the gray concrete driveway. It's a farmhouse and she doesn't know if it's Red's or not. It seems too pedestrian and out of the way. But she realizes he does have unique tastes. And it is dark. Perhaps in the light she could see the charm.

Mr. Kaplan let's her hold her purse as she takes the bags from the car Dembe put in there when they stopped for their brief dinner. She at least leads Hudson without incident after he hopped out of the car without warning when she opened the back door of the car.

"Last door on the right is your room," Mr. Kaplan says as she opens the door and points down a hallway to the right. "Blankets instead of comforter and there's a pitcher of water on the island in the kitchen with glasses above the coffee pot. Kitchen is on the left a few meters down; you can't miss it"

The last statement threw her a bit and she made her way through the kitchen with Hudson and Mr. Kaplan trailing behind.

"When did he tell you?" She asked as she turned to face her shadowy and mysterious bodyguard for the time being.

"A few weeks ago," she said. "He wanted me to monitor things here when he was gone."

Liz nods.

"You look exhausted, dear. Get some sleep and I'll watch over you tonight," Mr. Kaplan says.

There's something in her tone that strikes Liz as motherly and wonders if the woman has any kids or grandkids. She thinks she'd be the Disney version of Mary Poppins... the one that has the endless bag of knickknacks and firm and stern yet lovable. She wonders if Red has ever imagined Mr. Kaplan playing aunt to their baby.

"Do you think he'll be out all night?" She asks as she banishes her thoughts.

"Probably, dearie," Mr. Kaplan nods. "Even if they finish early, he doesn't want any trails leading to you. Especially with the ambiguous state of what condition you should be in if someone catches you."

Liz nods.

"Tell him I say goodnight," Liz says. Although her pitch suggests she wasn't too sure of how the statement would be taken by the older woman.

Mr. Kaplan seems to smile at Liz being direct. Or perhaps it was the directive.

"I know he would tell you to call and check in," she says.

Mr. Kaplan nods.

"Goodnight, dear," Mr. Kaplan tells her.

"Goodnight, Mr. Kaplan," Liz says.

Hudson follows beside her as she makes her way down the hall.

* * *

The clock strikes eleven and Dembe brings Red an open cellphone.

"The call you have been waiting for," Dembe says quietly. Ressler hears him, even if he wasn't supposed to.

"Thank you, Dembe," Red nods. He clears his throat before putting the phone to his ear.

Donald forgets he hasn't eaten since mid morning as his stomach protests and he watches Red on the phone.

He gulps down the last of the awful alcohol and needs to call it a night. He needs food and sleep. But he also needs a promise. He waits and listens to Red as he gets up and stands at the furthest window. He's quiet and whispers but somehow Ressler knows it isn't Liz on the phone.

"Hudson is in the room with her?" He hears Red ask. He briefly recalls Liz telling him the name when he had made his way over to her brownstone once upon a time. It was her dog's name, if he remembers correctly.

"No, we'll stay here and make sure nothings been compromised," he says to the other person.

Red hums a reply and whatever else he says is muffled as he turns away. A few seconds later, a snap of the cell closing is all that sounds in the room.

"Thank you, Dembe," Red says again as he nods and hands back the phone. Donald finds it strange that he chooses to use a regular phone but deduces that it's a burner and they'll have a new one soon enough.

Red turns back to Ressler and the younger stands.

"Two stipulations," Ressler says as he pockets Red's information.

Red's face gives away his go ahead rather than having the question brought up aloud.

"I want to see Liz. And I want to talk to her face to face," Ressler says. "If I'm helping her and helping you, or whatever, I want to see her."

"You realize what you're asking?" Red asks after a brief pause to let Ressler finish any thoughts.

"Reddington," Ressler warns.

"I'm serious, Donald," Red says. "It's one thing if I send you pictures and she communicates via an encrypted phone. It's another to speak face to face. You're facing jail time if this ever gets out."

"It won't," Ressler assures him.

"Fine," Red relents. "Dembe will be in touch."

He doesn't shake hands but he can take Red at his word. If Donald Ressler has learned anything over the years it's that Raymond Reddington is a man of his word. He just nods and lets Dembe lead him to the door.

Red sinks to the couch. He needs the chessboard. Its going to be a long night of contingency planning.

* * *

Morning comes too soon, she thinks. She's not sure what time it is but Hudson wines at her from the foot of the bed. She sighs and stretches, popping her joints slowly. She waits for her lower back to pop in relief but it doesn't come and she thinks the tension from the transatlantic flight and not really sleeping so much as resting is the ultimate part of this dilemma she finds herself in. A whine comes again and she sighs.

"What time does he first let you out?" She asks the dog as she slowly makes her way out from under the sheets and blankets.

Hudson only answers with a tilt of his head.

The cotton shirt and pants she slept in won't be a match for the DC morning air so she hopes Red at least brought his robe for her to step out in.

Mr. Kaplan obviously had snuck into the room while she was asleep and deposited bags. In Red's bag, he not only has his robe but has her robe she thought she had forgotten and she slips it on. Her feet are chilly on the hardwood floor so she digs around her bag to find a new pair of socks.

Hudson leads the way as he pads along a sleep mused Liz. This is definitely too early to be up and yet here she is. She knows whatever time this is will be nothing compared to the little sleep they will get when the little one finally makes her appearance. But for now she can complain because Hudson won't care as long as he gets to go outside.

As they pass the kitchen, Hudson stops. He's distracted. It seems like she's not the only one that's been woken up early. Although, she hopes Mr. Kaplan wasn't woken by Hudson. Like Red, Mr. Kaplan is dressed for the day despite the hour.

"Morning, dear," Mr. Kaplan says.

Liz pats her hair self-consciously and yawns before relating the sentiment.

Mr. Kaplan pours her a coffee in the morning and waits for Liz to taste it before continuing. Its like sweet nectar she's been denied in the presence of Red and Dembe. They both still drink it. She can smell it on either of them and taste it in Red's kiss as the bitter beans linger on his lips and tongue. It doesn't jolt her awake but heightens her senses that are slowly turning on in the early morning air.

"Thank you," she whispers into the cup.

"He said to make you oatmeal but to ask if you were craving anything first," Kaplan says.

Liz sighs. She's been craving normal food that she hasn't really eaten in a while.

"I am quite capable of making anything you wish," she notes when Liz doesn't answer right away.

"Pancakes?" Liz asks almost sheepishly.

Mr. Kaplan smiles and nods her head.

"You drink up, dearie. It's probably the only cup you'll get for another 21 weeks," the elder woman points out as she makes her way to the pantry for all the dry ingredients.

Liz laughs and greedily holds the precious liquid that's been denied so long. She sighs with content.

"I'll just let Hudson out," Liz says as she walks out of the kitchen and finds her shoes still at the door.

"Do you have a coat?" Mr. Kaplan asks.

"No," she shakes her head.

"Wear mine. If not for your sake, then the baby's. No use in catching a preventable chill," Mr. Kaplan suggests. "Its on the rack."

That was what the mug of coffee was for, as she was going to lead Hudson around, but Mr. Kaplan was a step ahead of her.

"Thank you," Liz calls out as she bundles the coat over the robe and clips the lead to Hudson's collar.

Hudson likes this place because he can roam like he does in Portugal. She didn't know why she had gone with a house in the middle of the suburban streets with little greenery. But at least it's rectified now with Red's input. They escape the large concrete driveway that extends as far as she can see and notices the four single car garage units at the very last part of the house as she looks at the house in the gray dawn morning. Hudson tugs on the lead and they walk through the lush and frosty green grass at the front of the yard. She smiles as she lifts the cup to her mouth as Hudson slows his pace as he finds trees dividing the front and backyards.

Hudson does his business as she sips and savors her coffee as she watches him from her perch while keeping a light hold on the adjustable lead. She's also admiring the softness of Mr. Kaplan's coat when she feels Hudson tug at his lead as he tries to chase a bird.

"Come on," Liz says to him as she finishes her last sip of coffee. "We'll feed you. You're not a hunting dog."

As if he understands, they head back to the front yard and head back inside.

The door creaks open as Liz lets Hudson off and puts his lead on the entryway table and tucks her shoes around the base of the coat rack. She turns and finds Dembe and Red walking through the door, still dressed in last night's clothes. They both look exhausted.

"Liz," Dembe says.

"Dembe," she nods.

Dembe moves past Liz for Hudson who is happily waving his tail in greeting.

"Morning," Red greets her.

"Morning," she parrots.

He leans into her and brings her in towards him in a full body hug from the side. She laughs low and quiet and closes her eyes as his fingers make their way under the coat, her robe, and her shirt and his fingers slip into her waistband of her pants.

"Where's Mr. Kaplan?" He asks as her. He breathes her in and she smells like a winter morning and her ear is cool to the touch as his nose bumps against it.

"Kitchen. She's making me breakfast," she tells him.

"She gets a coat and I don't?" Red scoffs aloud as he leans away from Liz to direct his voice towards the kitchen.

At that, Hudson barked his hello and walked around them, his tail happily thumping against their legs. Dembe takes the opportunity to escape to the kitchen.

"I'm borrowing hers," she says as she turns in his hold to face him fully.

He hums and eyes her.

Without much preamble or warning, he presses his lips against hers. She cants her head and his fingers fall to her hips as he releases her and presses closer. Its all too brief as her stomach rumbles and he laughs. Her tongue darts out and licks her lips and he smiles softly at her.

"Coffee?" He asks.

"Just one, tiny cup," she whispers.

They both look down at the empty mug in her hold between their bodies.

"So much for following orders," he teases.

"I'm hungry," she says.

"Smells like pancakes," he notes.

She takes two of his fingers in a hold and leads his to the kitchen.

Dembe's already piling pancakes onto a plate with butter and warmed syrup when they arrive. They're perfectly golden brown and sand dollar in size and she grins as she sets her empty mug in the sink. She hears Mr. Kaplan and Red greeting one another and watches Red lean down and kiss both cheeks of the woman.

She waits for the next batch and she can't help eating one as she follows Dembe's lead and butters and syrups the hot breakfast.

She sits at the table across from Dembe and a glass of water appears to her right.

"Anything else?" He asks.

"No," she shakes her head. "Thank you."

Mr. Kaplan and Red join the table with a few pancakes and converse about the recent goings on here. She has no doubt Red's been monitoring but it's interesting how much information Kaplan gives without a thought. She zones out as Red begins to speak about a situation with the stock prices of a company and places her hand on her stomach, absently running her fingers along the soft silk of her robe. She freezes and she perhaps gasped or made some sort of reaction because she finds all eyes on her when she looks up.

"Lizzie?" Red asks.

His voice is high with emotion and just short of breaking into some sort of action when she turns to him.

"I... I think she moved or something," she says quickly. She tries to reassure him but she's lost in trying to place what she feels.

He perks up and watches as she runs her fingers up and down her stomach.

"There have been these bubbles," she begins. "Or something like bubbles. Little fluttery feelings. Like the feeling you get on your tongue when you drink seltzer or soda or something carbonated. But this was different. It was... Stranger. Stronger. It wasn't a pain just kind of like when your stomach feels like it dropped when you get on a roller coaster and then these little fluttering bubbles."

He's captivated. She can tell by the look he's giving her despite the outward almost strange look he's giving her now. He's leaning towards her, his fingers tap on his thigh, and his eyes are wide and light in the morning sun. She wonders if he wants to feel her stomach to see if he can feel it too but they have an audience that's almost captivated as he is and she's never been one for displays. She feels quite self-conscious these days and although no one mentions anything to her about it, the strange stage between feeling pregnant and looking pregnant is the category she falls into right now. She has the energy of the second trimester but not the belly. Or the typical baby bump size they show average women having-which she doesn't quite seem to have at the moment-and it's making her rather self conscious. But she doesn't want any special treatment so she doesn't tell anyone her petty thoughts.

"She's in the fluttering stages," Mr. Kaplan notes. "Healthy baby."

"It's all quiet again," she notes.

He flashes just the briefest hint of disappointment and she thinks next time when they are alone she will ask him if he wants to touch her, as strange as that sounds to her.

The rest of breakfast is a quiet affair and she only blames herself.

"Thank you," Red says seriously as they all stand in the entryway that's as large as the one in the Portuguese villa.

Mr. Kaplan nods and brushes off the tone she hears.

"I'm one phone call away, dear," she notes.

He kisses her cheeks and Liz watches from a few feet away and nods her head as Kaplan looks over at her.

Red walks her through the door and Liz stands and waits. He's working his jaw as he comes back in and she bites her lip.

"I'm sorry," she tells him.

He watches as she places her hands on the slight swell that's visible to him and nods.

"It's fine, Lizzie," he notes.

He sighs and rubs a hand at the back of his neck and she can see how tired he is.

"Did you sleep or play chess?" she asks quietly.

"Contingency planning," he corrects her. Its never simply a game of chess.

She smiles a half smile and nods at the correction.

She leads him to the bedroom and strips him of his tie before he sheds his suit jacket and she undoes the buttons of his vest. She steps back and let's him take care of his pants and dress shirt. The bed is still warm though mostly cool and he stifles a groan as he makes contact with the goose down pillows and the gel memory foam mattress.

She tucks the blankets around his form and he sneaks a hand out as she makes to leave.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

"I just got up," she tells him.

His fingers tighten around hers.

"By the time I get in you'll be asleep and won't even notice me," she sighs.

"Oh, I always notice you," he quips.

"Stop," she laughs and shakes her head.

He chuckles and sighs into the pillow. She smiled down at him and presses her lips to his forehead. He closes his eyes and she rubs her thumb across the back of his hand a few times until he slackens his grip.

She finds nothing to do in the house. Red is sleeping and Dembe is sleeping. And Hudson didn't want to leave Red's side and is most likely sleeping. She's taken a shower and brushed her teeth in one of the washrooms that aren't by either of the sleeping men's rooms. She hadn't done much with her hair considering it didn't look like they'd be going anywhere. She had put her yoga pants back on and slipped into one of his dress shirts he had tucked in the bottom of his bag. She noticed he had packed a few extras and figured it was because she tended to steal his more often when they were having a quiet day. She wandered the house but steered clear of the other closed doors since she knew Dembe was behind one of them. She found herself hungry again and was surprised to find Mr. Kaplan had even prepared a fruit salad. She didn't even know she really wanted it until she saw it but she had to have it and even the banana she usually picked out and put aside was delicious.

With nothing else to do and a full stomach once again, she walked back to the bedroom and went to her usual side of the bed. His limbs are spread across the bed and he's snoring slightly. It's quite endearing. She pushes and moves his limbs in order to get into the sheets and blankets and curls up to his side. It's not that she's tired as much as she just wants his presence. His body heat rolls off in waves and she curls closer, if possible. He doesn't move nor does he give much indication he knows she's there. Soon enough, her eyes close and she falls into a light sleep.

* * *

Two days of exploring the house and she finds it is not Red's but an associate of his that owns the house. A real associate and not one of those small connections like a maid let him in. The taste is similar to Red's own but darker colors in the bedrooms that suit the more foreboding feel of the darkened farmhouse. They haven't done much but have lazy days and she really loves sitting outside on the porch swing despite the chilly temperature.

It's too early for dinner so she wonders why Dembe has car keys in his hand and is waiting for Red to finish his move before he speaks.

"Dembe?" Red says as he looks over from the chessboard.

"Our contact says he will be getting off in ninety minutes," Dembe informs him.

"Pick him up and bring him back here," Red says.

Dembe nods and bows out before Hudson can follow him.

At the Post Office they're still rounding up blacklisters but there seems to be a lull in information on their current one so Ressler seems to get the rest of the night off and six o'clock is an early time to call it quits. He walks off the elevator and gets into his car. He had been parking in the subterranean garage lately because his old leg injury had been giving him some problems. He knows its just his body's strange way of telling him its cold because he's learned to tell the difference between an 'angry at the weather' twinge and a serious twinge. It's one of the former today. A car starts its engine as soon as he's a block away and cuts him off as he is about to get into the turn lane. He doesn't believe in coincidences when he knows Raymond Reddington is in town and knows from a gut reaction that Reddington sent it. He gets conformation when they are safely out of the city's camera networks and Dembe gets out of the driver's seat at Ressler's apartment. He's not sure who the other guy is but he takes off as he gets out of the other side of the car and Ressler pulls up to Dembe on the sidewalk.

"Get in," Dembe says.

Ressler turns off the car and gets into the passenger seat of the Mercedes.

It's almost two hours later-they hit rush hour traffic-when Dembe turns down a slightly uneven but paved road and eventually enters the long driveway.

"What are we doing here?" he asks.

"Mr. Reddington is meeting one of your conditions," Dembe tells him.

He listens as Dembe turns off the engine and he gets out of the car and follows Dembe up the few steps of the house. Dembe unlocks the door and proceeds to walk in and let the special agent follow him inside.

He's left to shut the front door and follows the typically silent man to a sitting room.

"Wait here and I will get them," he notes.

Ressler nods and looks around at his surroundings.

Dembe finds Liz sitting on the edge of the bed. She has one of Red's ties around her neck with the fabric between her fingers as she makes an adjustable knot in the material. Red is occupied, or at least his hands are, as he has both of them around her midsection on either side. He stands in the middle of Liz's legs and the legs in question wrap him in a hold and her ankles are brushing the back of his thighs.

"She's apparently moving," Red says as he looks to the door.

The little fluttering bubbles feeling seems to start whenever he speaks for a long period. It's really only fair she thinks. After all the only thing that seemed to quell the urge to vomit in the first trimester was the lingering scent of him on his shirts or her simply curling herself closer to do the same. He's been quietly reading her the book of poetry she was going to start next at Frederick's house when he brought her into the bedroom to continue to recite the poems from memory as he changed. She had wondered why he was getting dressed but didn't ask since she was so mesmerized by the fact he can still remember poetry he learned back in high school.

"She is," Liz notes as she has him lean forward and she straightens his collar and loops his tie before bringing the collar back down, cinching and straightening the tie, and smoothing his tie before smiling and nodding at him. "It's not my fault you can't feel her yet."

Dembe shakes his head and doesn't want to get into the matter.

"Our guest is here," he notes.

"Thank you, Dembe. We'll be out in a minute," Red nods.

Dembe nods and closes the door as he hears Red informing Liz she may want to put a loose shirt on if she doesn't want their guest to know quite yet.

She walks slightly behind Red, adjusting her shirt as they walk down the hall to meet the guest.

Ressler watches as Liz cants her head and flashes a brief look of surprise before a smile appears on her face.

"Hey," she draws out. Her pitch sounds a bit skeptical and he sees her watching Red.

"One of the conditions for information is that he gets to talk with you in person," Red says as he looks back to Liz. "I am a man of my word; so, here we all are."

There's a jingling beside him and he notes the dog's low growl and he hears Dembe tell the dog to hush.

They're standing in the middle of the room and Hudson seems to be the only one not feeling the strange atmosphere as he walks over to Red's side.

"Dembe, if you'd start the car," Red says.

Dembe nods to both Red and Liz and Ressler doesn't miss the smile Liz gives the man.

Ressler also doesn't miss the way Liz doesn't back down when Reddington enters her personal space. Not that he hasn't this entire time he's know the two but it feels different. The room becomes too small despite the vast size.

He wants to look away but can't seem to do so as Red presses his lips to Liz's. It's reminiscent of the kiss Red had given Luli the first day they met his team but stranger. Perhaps because he wasn't able to share a look with Liz. Or perhaps because he watched Liz's hand move to the other man's cheek. The kiss itself is chaste and quick but her hand lingers.

"Donald," Red calls out. Ressler shakes his head to get out of the stupor. "Will you be joining us for dinner? Lizzie wants that Chinese food place a few blocks from her house so we'll head back to DC and let you two talk."

"Uh, sure," he nods.

"Great," Red nods. "We'll be back. You know which number to use if you change your mind about the food?"

Liz nods.

"I want Chinese," she reassures him.

He chuckles and places his fedora on his head before nodding at Ressler and disappearing.

"What is this place?" Ressler asks Liz as soon as they both hear the lock on the door click in place.

"One of his safe houses?" Liz shrugs. "Do you want anything to drink or…"

"I'm fine," he waves her off.

She nods and she pads into the kitchen and goes to the cabinet and pulls out a tall glass, filling it with water from the pitcher. She takes a small sip and leads with her hand to lead him back to the living room.

As she turns on most of the lights, he takes her in. She hasn't changed much and he thinks that's a little surprising. Except for the hair, he finds her no different. Her clothes are different but he takes the yoga pants and loose shirt with the tank top underneath to suggest she had been running or working out or something before he got there. After all, she has a dog and it looks like he is an active mutt.

"Two hours is a long time away," Ressler notes as she sits across from him. He's chosen the single chair while she leans against the edge cushion of the couch. He doesn't miss the dog plopping himself in front of her.

"Hudson, lay," she says with a laugh. She looks at him as she directs her statement away from the dog. "Red and Dembe have put it in his mind he's a guard dog."

He looks at her skeptically and she flashes a brief smile.

"Red knows I can take care of myself. And he trusts you," she says as she gets back to the statement he made.

Ressler makes a scoffed noise and she smiles a little.

"You and I wouldn't be alone if he didn't," Liz points out.

* * *

They sit next to one another and Ressler notes that Liz turns to lean her back against the arm of the couch and sits facing Red's profile. He, in turn, sits closer and her feet sneak under his thigh. He dishes her up first: she's been having a fondness for fruits and vegetables lately so he bought almost all the veggie dishes and spring rolls with a few beef dishes for himself, Dembe, and Ressler.

Red seems to be the one making the most conversation but it's about Ressler's current blacklister they're having a bit of trouble locating and Red offers a few suggestions without even looking so much at a case file.

The vegetable fried rice is her favorite. Or maybe it's the baby's favorite. Either way, when Red tries to get his side back, she lifts a brow and he sighs.

Hudson goes to each for an attempt of food. He's been successful with the two not on the couch and finds a comrade in Red but a strong opponent with Liz. He sits in between Red and Liz and his paw makes a venture to Red's thigh.

"You spoil him," Liz notes quietly.

"He's a good dog," Red shrugs.

Liz shakes her head.

When Red is finished with his meal, he leans towards her and puts an arm around the back of the couch. His thumb absently draws itself against the exposed skin of her shoulder. Her stomach flip flops and for a minute she's not sure if its her or the baby that's done it until the low, familiar burn floods her veins.

Ressler is only half paying attention to them because Dembe does actually speak to him more than just directions. He's talking about the software Ressler will be conveniently getting in his mail next week to help with the current blacklister the rest of the on the right side of the law are chasing down.

A few hours later finds Liz and Ressler at the door. Dembe is outside in the car and Red is cleaning up the mess of takeout boxes. She hugs him. Which is surprising but he holds onto her and closes his eyes, relishing the contact. Its one thing for her to tell him things but its another to see her at ease and feel the slight weight of her in his arms. Its funny, she smells like him now. The rich mix of Reddington mixed with the light and airy, simple smell of Liz. As she kisses his cheek, he feels the weight of Reddington's stare as he stands in the shadows.

"He's protective," Liz says without turning around.

"Always has been, always will be," Ressler agrees quietly. He pipes up so Red can hear. "I'll get that information for you guys. I'll need Aram's help but it shouldn't take more than two days."

* * *

She doesn't know how or when it really started but she is pleased with the results. Dembe has taken Donald back to DC, which leaves them to their own devices. She immediately makes for the hallway and heads to the bedroom to change into pajamas-a dress shirt of his and shorts- and he clears the table. It's one less thing for Dembe to do even though he told his boss to leave it.

One of them starts it. She can't say whom since she found the pooling heat in her belly slowly burning all day as they sat next to each other and he touched her absently and innocently. Or if it was his overwhelming desire to feel what she felt this morning and again this afternoon as he finally got a chance to place his hands on her belly. Or if it was him and the appeal of her pajamas being yesterday's shirt. But she knew he'd slow the rush as soon as her nimble fingers worked the buttons of his dress shirt and he shucked it away before backing her to the bed.

She closes her eyes as she feels the slightly cooler air drift over her overheating form. She feels him lean down and her lips part as his lips trace the outer shell of her ear as he whispers how beautiful she is. She doesn't feel it but he's never lied to her yet. He peppers kisses from her ear, down her neck until he reaches her clavicle. She moans quietly in the back of her throat and her hands clench low on his hips. She feels his breath as he makes his way between the valley of her breasts, his hands trailing a bit behind.

Her breasts are only starting to ache as they begin to get fuller. She's gone up half a cup size but hasn't bought another bra yet since she knows they're only starting to fill out. He's more of a neck man but she knows he appreciates every one of her assets. He must know this developing sensitivity since he is careful in skirting his hands around her exposed form. He leans back and for what feels like forever, she only feels the brief weight of him as he partially straddles her thighs. She opens her eyes and find his hands just above her skin, hovering as if the contact would zap him. He knows it won't. He's touched her quite a few times without incident. But perhaps it's the extra thrill and danger of Ressler possibly being a tattletale. Or it could be the fact the baby flutters now and he's worried. He's wanting to savor this moment. But she won't let him have it because she doesn't want him thinking this will be the last time they will ever see each other. So, she arches her back slightly and angles her hips towards him. His fingers make contact with her skin and it burns white hot and low in her belly. She holds a gasp because when he's like this he's tuned into every little noise she makes and right now he's rather focused on her middle.

It's less noticeable with clothes on. Barely noticeable, really. But here, lying prone on her back with him just above, it's rather noticeable. Gone is her flat stomach and in its place is a distended kind of shape. It's not so much a rounded bump as it is, well, she can't really describe it and she'd guess he wouldn't be able to either. It's more like the times she always eats too much Chinese food and claims a food baby for the next few hours. But it prevents her from wearing her pants comfortably anymore and the additional little hips she gained is thanks in part to the baby, too. His fingers brush across the almost rounded bump of her low stomach and she sighs quietly. She wonders if he finds it strange. It's not hard like she knows it will get from her readings just before she has her. But it's not soft and pliable either. It's an odd mix between the two and she often finds herself memorizing the feel and shape in the shower.

She doesn't know if what compels him is sudden or if it's been a slow burn up to this point but she suddenly finds herself sitting up and has to take a deep breath in. She's a bit light headed but she opens her eyes to find him looking at the minimal space between them. He's been getting trimmer with each long walk and stick throwing session with Hudson. He thinks she doesn't know about the weights and boxing with Dembe. And she's sure if it hadn't been winter, she'd hear the splash of the pool back at the villa. He's not back to the muscular build he used to be in his Navy days but that's never been a priority for her anyway and right now she thinks all the work has paid off. He's fitter and trimmer than she's seen him and she enjoys the fact he's been doing this for them, their rag tag family. Sitting up like this helps emphasize the bump from their view and he hums his approval. She can't help but smile as he snakes his hand between them and places it on their growing child. He then removes his hand and settles her in closer. Their stomachs touch, their upper bodies meld, and she sighs as his hands make their way down her back and hook into the shorts she wears-the only remaining piece of clothing separating her naked form from his eyes. After all, the only thing she's divested him of is his shirt before he got distracted by the barely defined bump of their growing baby girl. As he dips his fingers in the waistband of her shorts, he lets her lay back down between the pillows and sheets. She knows well what that gleam in his eye means as he slowly starts inching his way off the bed and moving her down along with him. She hears the zipper and shuffle of his shucked pants but can't see past his waist as he stands in front of her.

Despite little purchase she had, she did manage to arch her hips slightly against his mouth. The little chuckle sent a hitch to her throat and a shudder overcame her. Her breathing is shallow and he's too far away for her to touch so her hands make fists in the sheets as her whole body shudders and comes down from the high.

He releases her legs from the perch on his shoulder and the sort of fall heavily from her lack of will to control them. He climbs onto the bed and places himself slightly above her. His shoulders and arms twitch from holding in one position for too long but he ignores the sensation. Despite the pleasure, it still isn't enough. The burn still aches in her lower belly and she watches from half-lidded eyes as he watches her form with dark eyes.

"I need," she gets out. But that's all she gets out.

He busies himself with his favorite spot where her clavicle and neck meet and ignores her clipped needs. He settles himself a little lower and his brief-clad lower half meets with her naked one. She can feel the heat, the weight through the flimsy material as it presses against her still pulsing and throbbing sex. She bites her lip and a little sigh escapes her.

"Raymond," she gets out.

He hums against her as he shifts to the opposite side of her neck and the vibration courses through her.

"Please," she says.

He relents and he watches her.

He moves completely off her and she watches as he quickly drops his briefs and returns. He gets to his knees slowly and her hips shift, her legs part automatically. She breathes in and watches as he takes himself in his own hands and bites her lip as he makes first contact. Of course he never makes it easy for her and he teases her once and twice, watching her reaction.

"No," she whispers and tries to shy away. Her hips shift and though she doesn't really make an escape, she doesn't really want to. She's over sensitive right now and despite him wanting to make this all about her and her pleasures, she'd rather have it be mutual.

He nods and teases her one last time before guiding himself to where she wanted him in the first place. His hand, once free of guiding, moved up towards her head. Its long and slow and she thinks it might kill both of them the pace he's set but each time she tries to change it, he denies her. Despite her reluctance and shying away from the taste of herself on his lips, she needs any contact with him she can get. So, for now, just this once, she belays the rule and brings his lips to hers. She angles her head as their noses brush and she feels the slight rumble as he can't control the slight groan that slips past his defenses.

He reaches his first and through his own haze, slips a hand between them and she finally let's go with a soft cry of his name into his neck and he's sure there's half moon marks in his skin. He switches their position so they're facing each other while laying on their sides and his fingers find the bump. She breaths heavily against his skin and he lazily hums and she feels the vibration course through her.

"She's sleeping," she whispers lazily.

"So are you," he says.

She hums but doesn't deny it.

"Sleep, Lizzie," he whispers.

"Don't obsess all night about it," she tells him as she closes her eyes.

The last thing she hears is a quiet laugh as she falls into a deep sleep.

* * *

He hears quiet rumbling of low voices as he makes his way behind Dembe to the office. There's walls of bound papers and she sits on the couch in the crook of his arm as he reads from some bound manuscript. Gone is the suit jacket, vest, and tie he has rarely seen Red without. He thinks those might even be more casual slacks than dress pants. He's different from when he first saw him in the shadows of this house. Of course he still looks tired but there's a lightness in the air that hadn't been there three days ago. It's a strange sight to overcome and he hasn't even considered the way she's leaning into him. How her eyes are closed and one hand is on his leg and slips under his thigh to keep herself steady as she leans into him. He doesn't seem to mind as he props the manuscript up and reads from it as if she's still paying attention.

She opens her eyes and they meet with Ressler's own. And Donald wonders if she sensed his stare. If she was uncomfortable with him seeing any of this, she didn't show it. Rather, she seemed to tuck more towards Red when he entered the room fully.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," Ressler says as he looks to his dress shoes.

"Nonsense," Red suggests. Ressler wonders if the man is ever uncomfortable in any situation. He doubts it.

"The information," Ressler says as he holds up a thick case file and a thumb drive. "Where we have camera, shift changes, your passport, and whatever else you need for the bank. Pictures of you guys so far are on the thumb drive. And there's also the other thing you asked for."

Red and Liz part and Red breaks free from his position on the couch and thanks Ressler. Liz follows and stands to the side of him. When Ressler hands Red the file, Red passes it to Liz without thinking.

"If you guys need any more help, Meera, Aram, and I are here," Ressler tells him.

Red looks back at Liz and then back at Ressler. Liz must have said something to him when he and Dembe left them alone because he usually had never been this helpful.

"Donald," Red calls out as Ressler makes to leave and the older man follows.

"Why?" he asks quietly when Ressler pauses and turns.

"She doesn't deserve the witch-hunt just to get to you," Ressler told him as he shrugged his shoulders. "And I'm pretty sure she loves you and although I don't understand why, I don't want her in a hole in the ground for falling for you."

Red's brow furrows but Ressler doesn't say anything else. He nods once and leaves it at that. He turns back to Liz and forgets that Ressler probably thought Liz was in on the witch-hunt information and put it all in one file.

As Red and Ressler speak in low hushed tones, she reads. She reads and reads until there's no more slips of paper to snatch up and she bites her lip as she feels his stare.

"All of this," she says with the papers in her hand and gestures to the thumb drive. "It's all because of me. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to get away with any of this without me getting wind and not letting go or alerting you."

"He was going to use you to get to me," he nods.

She has flashback of Tom and how Red took stock of his vulnerabilities and how she was one among others and he turned himself in simply to protect her. Now he's done the opposite and run to be in the fugitive state once again and it's still because of her. He had never really believed or intended for her to come. But he made plans. They were here in her hands. What each of her fellow agents would have done or he would have threatened them and pressured them into doing if she had stayed behind. His contingency plans were wherever she wanted, his original plans was complete protection by her teammates. She should feel something about this. Anything. But she's a little in shock and this kid has fried her brain usage today and so she can only come up with one question.

She looks at him. Her brows furrow to match his pursed lipped gaze. She can feel the fact he thinks she's going to reject him. Reject his attempts at always doing what he believes is best and damning the consequences as long as she is safe and alive.

"Why?" she asks.

"You know the reason, Lizzie," he tells her. He doesn't tell her often enough because he's scared that those words will spook her. He said it once and meant it and has meant it ever since but he uses actions rather than words because words are too powerful and she still has the ability to undo him.

She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip.

He steps closer, slowly. Its almost as if she's a startled kitten and he wants to pick her up but he's afraid if he does, she'll run. The slump of her shoulders is the thing that makes him take the gesture as acceptance. He wraps his arms around her. He feels her hands move and embrace him, too. He feels her hiccuping breath against the skin of his neck. He closes his eyes and breathes out heavily.

"I never wanted to stop," she whispers into his neck.

It's the confession she's never really had to state because he knows it well. She has a deep yearning to be better than the life path she could have chosen long ago in Omaha. She's spent every day trying to forget her past and he's had her revert a few times when she was still an agent to succeed in his endeavor to take down his enemies, and a few of hers. She's ambivalent to the life of crime. She can understand and relate to it but as much as she thrives here, she shines on the right side of the law if given a chance. He chose her because of a promise made long ago but loved her because of the passion and fire he saw. How she's hard and soft. She's warm and cool. She's a conundrum and an enigma and he wants to spend every single day trying to solve the puzzle that is Elizabeth Scott Milhoan because she spends every day unconsciously unwrapping the mystery that is Raymond Reddington. She saw past Red the first week. Now she's getting Raymond and he wonders when she'll want to back away from the darkness and despair and loner man. But perhaps that's why they stay. They're too much alike to want anyone else. No one else can have this history and this tumultuous relationship that started out as grasping at straws and has now turned into a connection forged in the most basic of principles: love. And, he can't forget: a tiny, helpless human depending on them to keep them both out of the hole in the ground Tom Connelly wants them both in and is blackmailing Harold Cooper into helping him achieve his goal.


	9. Chapter 9

She spent most of the plane ride to Zurich looking out the window of the plane. When they first boarded, she went immediately for the couch rather than the seats across from it. It wasn't an especially long flight but he did have to concede the couch was significantly more comfortable than all the other seats. He figured she'd nap or something; they were leaving at dinnertime and he did admit both of them really haven't been sleeping well. He knows for her it's a mix of apprehension about this job as well as the baby. For him, it's the worry over them. She claimed she wasn't hungry yet-she and Dembe had gone into town and she had vegetarian paella for a late lunch after touring the fresh air market down at the seaside. Dembe assured him she had eaten plenty before he called Roderick and said they'd be at the airfield within the hour. He really just wanted her to be there for the sunrise in Zurich. One could never miss an opportunity for a sunrise and a sunset in the beautiful Swiss city. The bright orange orb peaking out from the Alps and casting a beautiful glow on the waterfront. The water almost looked as if it was on fire when the sun hit at the right angle in the wee hours of the sunrise. Same thing happened with the sunset, especially in the summertime when the sun took longer to set. He closed his eyes and simply imagined her face taking it all in. He hoped he'd be correct in his assumptions of her reaction. As he opened his eyes, they trained on her once more. Sometimes he forgot that she wasn't as seasoned as him when it came to traveling. It wasn't as if she was a horrible passenger; it was simply more fascinating to look out the window to her. He stuck with his crossword puzzles, occasionally looking over her shoulder as she asked him about the topography they flew over or pointed something out with a gasp.

"Have you ever been to the Alps?" She asked.

He finished filling in his answer on the flimsy paper before looking at her and answering with a nod.

"Why?" He wondered.

She shrugged and turned back to the view.

He frowned at the back of her head and wondered what she was thinking. She had been awfully quiet these last three weeks. Of course she was essential to the plans of the heist, of sorts. He couldn't really call it a heist because it wasn't as if they were robbing the place, more like sneaking into his box. Other than the detailed list of things she wanted to cover for said heist, the rest of their conversations seemed mundane. He had a feeling it had to do with her confession back in DC. But he wanted her to approach him, rather than the other way around. Honestly, he didn't know what to think about it all. Logically, he knew this would happen to her. It happened to him when he went underground after Christmas all those years ago. He knew Lizzie had it even worse because she did have things tying her back to DC. He didn't have much to go back for when he was burned. But he had two things in Nebraska to protect since he couldn't protect his family. So, he lost his identity and citizenship he once held and became his own, singular entity. No ties to countries or governments. He was his own one-man show. Well, he was until he met up with a slave named Dembe and an accounting wizard name Luli.

"Perhaps we can all come back," he says as he watches her profile. "They've built this platform on one summit. The view is absolutely breathtaking."

She turns to regard him and he sees the pensive look. It changes a moment later though, a brief flash of a smile.

"I'd like that," she notes.

He nods and they hold their gaze for a moment before he is the one to break away and turn back to his puzzle. He feels her quiet stare for a moment longer until she turns back to the view as they start to descend into the private airfield just outside the city limits.

* * *

She was up before the sun. He was asleep next to her, a rare feat, especially when traveling alone. She stretched out and heard her toes pop as she accidentally brushed them against his shin. His only response is a small shift of his legs away from her. She lay there quietly, listening to his breathing, deep and even. Some of the dark circles under his eyes from exhaustion are finally disappearing. She hopes hers are as well. She's avoided looking in the mirror for a number of reasons and she quickly added the dark circles under her eyes as yet another reason. She swears that this was the best night's sleep they've both had in weeks. Which isn't saying a lot because she did find herself up a mere six hours after they went to sleep. But she wasn't up because she wanted to be; she was up because she really had to use the washroom. She snuck out of his light hold and escaped to the washroom. She swears there's some sort of on and off switch to her bladder now. It hit somewhat quickly and she had scoffed as the books and websites said this would happen. She didn't expect it quite so accurately.

She quietly moves back to the bedroom and instead of moving towards the bed, she found herself itching for more of the view she was promised in the elevator. She moved to the little terrace balcony of their suite and quietly unlocked the door, opening them to let the faintest light through. She looked back to find him still facing away from her and seemingly still asleep. Turning back to the view, she smiled contentedly.

They had arrived late to Hotel Baur au Lac after having to stop at a little restaurant for the dinner she was finally hungry for as they landed. He had to have someone working in because everything was otherwise closed and she had really wanted something that wasn't something she could get back home at the villa. He had quickly ushered them to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant not far from the private airfield they landed at. He had ordered them Älplermagronen and wasn't disappointed. The applesauce may have been her favorite part though. But the macaroni dish was hearty enough to sustain her for the rest of the night. When they arrived, the concierge had told him that there were only a few of the Deluxe Corner Suites left and everything else was booked. Red chuckled and handed over his card without checking the price. When she took the pamphlet and browsed it while half listening to the conversation—for once, he had chosen a city where she knew the dominant language—she found herself trying not to gape at the price. She wondered if the price scared away most tourists. It half seemed as if this is what the concierge expected to happen since he froze for a moment before taking Red's card and processing the transaction. She had scoffed when they reached the elevator: $4,300 for a night? Red told her the view alone was worth the price. Neither bothered to look at the nighttime landscape. It was too dark to see anything but the city lights shining on the lake and she had already seen enough of that in Paris. Instead, they just barely got through their nightly routine before he suggested sleeping and she was out before he finished exchanging the duvet for blankets he had in one of his bags.

She remembered she looked at him skeptically in the elevator but had to take back her skepticism as she looked at the view for the first time this morning. As she looked over the private park designed just for the hotel, she found the bustling city over the bridge, trying to see if the bank was viewable from their perch above the city. But all the buildings looked the same to her. She'd have to ask him if they could see it after he woke. For now, she looked to her right and found the view she was so fascinated by on the descent into Zurich. The Alps stood out like a painting and she briefly wondered if Red had a painting or two of his favorite landscapes in his safe houses. He always seemed taken by the natural landscape depictions of artwork. The less people in it, the better, she thought. He had praised  _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_  while abhorring the music box girl one. She'd imagine he'd find this to be quite serene; especially with the lake and weeping willow-like trees in the forefront.

She yawned and hummed as the faint early rays of the sunrise hit her face as she stepped out fully onto the concrete and leaned against the wrought iron of the terrace. The rays warmed her skin and she closed her eyes, shivering ever so slightly with the contrast from the warmth on her face mingling with the otherwise cool morning air. She really should have slipped on a robe to cover her sleep shorts and her cotton t-shirt but she wanted to see the four thousand dollar view. The rays were slipping over her as they began to pass through the trees and she quietly chuckled to herself as she watched the light slip over her form. She pressed her hand to her belly and smiled as a swift jab followed the silent greeting.

She should have expected him but she was too focused on the view to notice his otherwise silent approach. It wasn't until his hand touched hers on her middle that she noticed his sudden appearance.

"God," she whispered and turned with her hand poised in the air to swat at the offender. "Don't do that."

He chuckled, whispered a half-ass  _sorry_  into her ear, and leaned into her. His nose tickled her neck and he hummed against her shoulder she was surrounded by the sleepy warmth still surrounding him from the bed. His hands pat hers briefly and left her belly to pull her back into him. His arm wrapped around her shoulder and hung low as she brought both of her hands up to grasp his forearm. Her head briefly leaned to the side and he took advantage, pressing his lips to her neck a few times. As she hummed, he pulled back.

"You're up early," he noted.

"Ballet on the bladder," she laughed quietly. "And I wanted to see this four thousand dollar view."

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asked.

She hummed her agreement and closed her eyes. She had missed this. Not necessarily the view because that was new, but the closeness. The way he'd wrap himself around her; the way they seemed to almost be one entity. It had been missing the past few weeks and she blamed herself for the distance as she tried to figure out what the hell was going on in her head.

"Breakfast?" she heard him ask.

"What?" she wondered.

"I asked what you wanted for breakfast," he repeated.

He felt her hesitate and he let her go, moving in her peripheral so she didn't miss the sunrise.

"We can eat it out here," he told her. "I just wanted to know if either of you were wanting anything specific."

She bit her lip as she let a small smile whisper across her face.

"No eggs," she informed him. The swift fluttering she received in response was taken as an agreement in her books. She laughed at this and when his eyebrows rose, she answered. "She was agreeing."

"No eggs," he nodded.

He retreated back inside. She heard his voice as he spoke fluently into the telephone and ordered what sounded like a smörgåsbord of food. Just as she was going to quickly go in for her robe, it was wrapped around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispered as she moved her arms into it. She looked back and sat down at the table when she finished tying the sash. He took the seat next to her and looked at her rather than the view. The small smile playing on her lips; the unconscious way her arms lay over her bump as she leaned into the chair; the way she didn't want to take her eyes off the landscape was well worth the money.

* * *

As he watches her dress, he remembers the detail she requested in doing this 'operation,' she called it. The guest room closest to their master bedroom in the villa had become her war room, so to speak. She was always the one to spot patterns the quickest. Sam had taught her well. The criminal aficionado in her always reared its head when he couldn't figure something out and needed another viewpoint. It happened with Zamani, Berlin, and now with Tom Connelly and this heist, of sorts. She'd spend hours with Ressler's folder of information on both the information on his bank and what the new Attorney General had on him and on her. She'd start on the bed, move to the floor, and finally tack up information on the wall and stare at it for hours. Tacking up pictures to the wall with tape and drawing imaginary lines to connected sources that he didn't see until she pointed them out to him.

Sometimes he'd watch her, quietly standing in the doorway, and half leaning against the frame as his arms folded and crossed against his chest. He figured she knew he was there-they had a sixth sense when it came to knowing where the other was-but she rarely looked in the direction of the door. He'd watch her eyes trace the patterns she made; watch as her mind spun with plans and contingency plans. His favorite was when she was feeling particularly smug about something she found or one of her hypothetical's passed her test. She'd get this smug little smile, a quiet and brief flash of joy on her face. He wasn't sure if touching her stomach was unconscious or not but she'd always end with placing her hand on the top of her swelling belly and look down at the ever growing bump.

It was only the second week in when she finally allowed Dembe and Red into the room and discussed the theories and various hypothetical situations with them. Previous to that, they had been regulated to making sure she got enough food and drink and went to bed at a decent time. She never neglected herself or the baby, but she became almost consumed with perfecting the take down of their new 'enemy' in Connelly and the perfect angle for the heist. He sat on the bed, his face pinched as he followed the patterns as they discussed the heist. Dembe was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and quietly taking everything in.

"Just the two of us?" Red asked as she finished her monologue and waited for reactions.

She canted her head and watched Dembe's reaction out of the corner of her eye.

"Someone needs to stay here and watch Hudson," she half-argued.

Red nodded and Dembe took the silent hint from both parties. Only when the door was closed did they speak again.

"Why?" He asked.

"I thought you'd like just the two of us," she shrugged. "Like before we… I left."

He did like the idea of just the two of them. It was reminiscent of a few cases where the rest of her team was in the bushes and regulated to the fringes of the room while they took center stage. Although, there weren't any clumsy agents in the bushes today; but not ones on their side if that was the case.

"We'll need and angle," she said.

She watched as he stepped close. He was a hairsbreadth away, looking over her shoulder at her information on the bank that Ressler had gathered over the years.

"Husband and wife?" he suggested.

She pulled back and stared at him.

"We've never done that angle before," he tried.

"Is this some elaborate scheme?" she asked a little skeptically.

He frowned and jutted his chin out at the thought.

"A husband and wife are unassuming," he told her. "You need me as backup. I need to be close enough to be in the bank but not placed in the safety deposit vault.

You can play the seemingly cool wife and I can be the bumbling idiot of a husband."

She let out a breathy laugh and shook her head.

"We'll need rings," she pointed out.

"Already covered," he noted. He looked down at her belly and one hand roamed the top of the bump. "Dembe and I will go to the jeweler tomorrow and you two and Hudson can spend the day outside."

"Fine," she nodded, consenting to his plan.

As he came back to the now, watching as she slipped on her flats, he wondered if this solo mission—as in the two of them without Dembe—was really another part of her trying to get him alone and able to talk about what was introduced in DC. He watched as she grabbed her car coat, slipping it on with a huff.

"Lizzie?" he asks before she can start another quiet huff.

She looks at herself in the mirror hanging on the door to the room and pushes her coat together, buttoning two of the three sections. When she gets to the third button, he is quietly standing behind her, watching as she tries to button the coat in vain.

"It won't button," she says.

He quietly turns her to face him rather than the mirror and she lets her hands drop to her side as he quietly pushes them from her button problem. He unbuttons the two she had and let the coat fall naturally. The shape of the car coat already hid the small but moderate size of her belly well. It was designed to be more form flattering at the top like that of a pea coat but the width was slightly larger and much less defined than the pea coat. He wondered why she chose this of all her coats but realized they did pack in a relatively short amount of time and the coat was an after thought when she checked the weather.

"It doesn't have to button," he tells her.

With it unbuttoned, her belly is for the most part hidden. Perhaps if someone was looking closely or if they viewed her profile, they'd be able to see. But looking straight on with the coat, it was hard to tell. And from the back, you could hardly tell the she was in fact 24 weeks pregnant.

"Coats don't always need to be buttoned or zipped," he informs her.

She watches his hands as they move away from her form and go back to his side. He twitches one of his hands and she raises a brow.

"What?" she asks.

His cheek twitches but she only half recognizes it as she zeros in on his hands that move into his pocket. Her brows furrow as she watches him pull out a box and moves from his pocket to resting lightly in both of his hands.

"The final touches," he says.

And with that, he opens the box and she finds two bands of brilliant gemstones.

Although the band of diamonds was beautiful, it was the other red colored gemstones that caught her eye and she zeroed in on.

"Rubies?" she asked quietly.

"Do you have a hidden fascination with gemstones, Lizzie?" he asked with a teasing lit. "Most people can't tell the difference between garnets and rubies on first glance."

She shook her head and gave him a brief chuckle.

"You know," he started, "The ruby is the gemstone most closely aligned with royalty."

He pulled the two rings out of their respective places in the box and carefully pinched them between two fingers as he put the box back in his pocket.

"They would keep rubies close; for protection and some believed it would warn them of danger. They believed wearing the ruby would give them the ability to make wise decisions and give them good fortune."

He palmed the diamond band and watched as she zeroed in on the ruby band. He lifted her left hand to rest between them and adjusted his hold on her wrist so her fingers subtly splayed out. He bit the inside of his lip, taking a quiet breath in before he took the band he hadn't palmed and slid it slowly onto her finger. It brushed over her skin and carefully went over her knuckles, resting perfectly on her finger.

"The Tiffany Novo is all about the future," he says with a small smile as he brought the palmed band back in her vision. He looks down between them at her middle and the tic in his cheek is brief but visible.

The round brilliant diamonds were center cut and circled the entire band, just like the rubies. Both were set in platinum and only .36 carats each but they were beautiful and simple. She was about to ask him if he thought it was enough for the cold, calculating wife she was going to play but he had already moved away to shrug into his coat. She could see him and his pensive mindset. Figuring they were going to have to kill some time before the bank, she'd ask about it later.

* * *

Café Conditorei Schober was everything Dembe said it would be. They were able to sit outside on the mild spring day and she was surprised at how little people were actually here. Red promised another trip here so she could actually see the inside. But for now the fresh air was helping to settle the nerves. She just wished she had a bit more of an appetite to appreciate the full menu here. Red ordered a pot of tea and told her that she could order anything she wanted. Not that he ever stopped her from ordering anything before. He just knew today she'd have to be prompted because her mind was elsewhere. She went through the motions of drinking the beverage she had become accustomed to in her brief twenty four weeks of no coffee… except the one time Mr. Kaplan let her get away with a cup.

One of her own fedoras sat low on her head; the wide brim shading her face as she took the chair facing him and the bakery-café over the people in the street. She knows what to look for, of course, but she's never had a problem giving up the need to people watch to him. After all, she doesn't know what even half of his enemies look like. She knows their reputation but she realizes that reputation means nothing. He's proof of that much.

She was nervous. She knew he knew that much from the way she avoided answering his questions with longer replies and the way she held herself. She went through motions rather than consciously thinking about things. Although brief, his twitch was back that he typically only got when her nervous attitudes rolled off and onto him. He was far more capable of hiding it though. But he himself did show it occasionally by the mundane sort of questions he offered. It was more of small chitchat than anything else. They never really had to work up to conversation or ever needed to fill the void of silence with questions. But it seemed like today it was a strange turn of events where they both were trying to hide their feelings or at least sequester them for the time being. She briefly wondered if there was ever any good time to talk. They always seemed to be traversing somewhere. Whether it was a different city or just somewhere down the road. It kept her busy, him busy, their minds busy. Which she supposes was often the thing he did to get his mind off something he didn't want to share with her at the moment. For the last three weeks they had been in this space of unease. She knew it was mostly her doing but he hadn't done anything about it either. In the back of her mind, she knew it was because he wanted her to approach. He didn't always want to be the one to open. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it once again. The mantra she once spoke over and over again early in their partnership came back to her: the fact that they weren't alike. She was a criminal before she was FBI; he was Navy before he was a criminal. She had no family; he had everything once upon a time. He was being groomed for Admiral; her position at Mobile Psych was there because no one else wanted to talk to the "crazy" criminals. Their beginnings may not be alike but they were now sort of in this strange void of being more similar than different.

As he watched her, he wondered if this was the opening. If this was the real reason why she had wanted just the two of them here in the city. He watched as she picked at the strawberry resting on her plate. The baby did not like strawberries and she refrained from eating this one. However, it didn't survive the absent mind of her hand still grasping her fork as she battled with her thoughts. He had waited for her to say what was on her mind but her time table seemed to get longer and longer and he knew the longer she waited, the longer the doubts would fester.

"I wasn't strong enough," she says suddenly as she bites the inside of her cheek and finally looks up. "You and I both know I wasn't ever cut out to have a task force built around me. They only did that because once upon a time you told them you'd speak only with Elizabeth Keen."

He couldn't deny it. The day before he left Munich, as he watched Zamani ready himself for his departure, he was having her tailed and made sure she was in DC ready for her first day of work as a new profiler for the FBI before he marched into Harold Cooper's New York Field Office and started the whole Post Office task force. Dembe had been watching the feeds in the city for the champagne colored Jeep and its female occupant. Luli was already in DC prepping for his contingency plans in case Liz needed extra motivation. He simply wondered why she was bringing it up now of all the times.

"Ressler is Captain America; he was a field agent long before the Post Office. He had his own task force and he's just shy of forty. Meera, she's CIA liaising with us because Diane Fowler brought her back from retirement. Hell, Aram had more experience in the field than me based on the amount of times he had to set up and take down surveillance."

His fingers twitch against the outside of his thigh and his eye twitches a little that she thinks experience is simply based on the rank or time spent in the field.

"You know what I did at Mobile Psych," she told him. It was hardly the profiling they all assumed she had done. Of course she's board certified in the specialty but that doesn't mean anything unless you're in the BAU. "I was ready to walk into the field office in Quantico, half expecting to go back to the training facility to teach classes for the rest of my career. I'm a qualified marksman but only just above average. I can fight hand to hand but if someone sneaks up on me, I rarely get the upper hand. I've nearly killed everyone on the team more than once because I wasn't ready for the field. I don't even know if I'm ready for this job. I can see patterns and plan operations but that's where my involvement should end."

He was quiet. Taking in each and every one of her points seriously. She wasn't trained for the deep, dark recess of a task force so early on but they needed each other to find answers to questions they had only just thought of and he knew the only way to get her onto the task force was to make that little statement he uttered to the viewing screens in the box at the Post Office.

"Do you know why I picked you?" he asked.

"You know I don't," she tells him quickly.

He would have chuckled if the situation was different.

"You told Harold on your first day that you have a fascination with the criminal mind," he begins. "It's not just the way it works. You started and became the head of Mobile Psych because you got into those patients heads. You diagnosed the worst of them in the city and still came out on the other end with your head on straight. Berlin…"

Her fork dropped quietly and her hands roll over her stomach, shielding herself, them. Just the name alone.

"It took me twenty years to build the network. Years to connect the cases I needed to get the name. It took you a night to figure it all out."

A night fueled by her rage at him.

"You are a brilliant and capable person, Lizzie. Whether you're working for my side or the FBI. You're stronger than you know."

"That's not the only reason you picked me," she pointed out.

"No," he agreed quickly. "But its the reason you need to hear right now."

She worried her lip and he reached across the table, halting her movements as she made to pick up the fork and start stabbing the innocent strawberry again.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he said.

She bit the inside of her lower lip and laughed. It was reminiscent of the heist with Madeline Pratt. That one didn't turn out so well for either of them in the end.

"Madeline isn't here," he chuckled as if reading her mind.

She sighed and watched as his fingers traced patterns on her hand, soothing her frazzled mind.

"You're going to do great, Lizzie," he told her honestly. Because she did do her job well when she knew what she was getting herself into. And she knew this heist well.

Her fingers curled into his and she felt the band of diamonds and rubies dig into her skin as she held tight for a moment. The words thank you didn't seem to have a full enough force of her gratitude and knew he appreciated gestures more anyway.

Just as she was about to get up, he held her there by tightening his grip on her fingers.

"Wait," he says quickly.

He lets go of one of her hands and digs into his coat pocket.

"I'm only borrowing this from the jeweler," he notes.

He opens yet another ring box and hands it over the table. It's a large cushion cut surrounded by center cut diamonds. She doesn't even want to know the carats and it's god-awful and screams everything she's not.

Her brow furrowed and she noticed he was careful with his word choice. He had specifically said he borrowed this one yet nothing about the others. Instead, he pointed out the significance of the gemstones or the ring itself. She takes it out of the box and fits it over her finger herself. It's slightly looser than the other two and she briefly wonders why the other two fit so perfectly, and they're subtle like she always preferred in her jewelry. There was a reason why there was a different presentation between the two, or three, she supposes. She just couldn't think about it right now. Not with her mind already needing to focus on the bank job.

"Ready?" he asks.

She nods. Pointing to the café and then to the bump not well hidden by the open coat.

He chuckles for a brief moment and nods. He doesn't miss the way her fingers brush his shoulder on the way past him as she moves to the washroom before they begin the reason they came to the city. He takes the ring box back and shoves it into his pocket. He'll put it in her bag so he doesn't have anything in his pockets at the bank. But for now he'd hold the box.

* * *

Her hand was clasped in his as they began the short walk to the bank from the café.

"This reminds me of New York," she says absently.

"Hmm?" he asks.

"The ability to walk everywhere," she notes. "I miss that. DC was okay but I really liked the ability to just walk everywhere in the City."

"And the pizza is marvelous," he says. "There's this little hole in the wall pizza place by the Vanguard. Makes the best slice in the City."

"Joe's?" she asks.

"Yes," he nods and his voice rises a notch at the surprise she knows about it. "In the Village."

"Standing room only," she laughs.

He chuckles right along with her.

"God," she whispers. "Now I really want pizza."

He holds her hand tighter and makes a mental note to make a quick stop in New York before they head to DC again in May. He hopes she'll understand why every year he watches the company put on Swan Lake. And perhaps she might even enjoy it and this year he may even feel a little less lonely. But that's a discussion best left for later. For now, he had to focus on the assessment of the streets to look for any potential give away agents lurking around the banking square.

He walked behind her; two steps and slightly off to her left. They had dropped hands as they crossed the metro lines and began this walk just as they cleared the security posts. She trusted him to assess the situation as she played her character, subtle as she was at the moment. He smiled pleasantly at the women in the teller windows eying the two of them as they waited on the other side of the bank for their appointment with one of the banking managers.

She turned to face him and he turned back to her. Her brows lifted in need of an assessment by him before she did this.

"No agents as far as I can tell," he told her. "Donald is keeping this away from the Post Office."

With his assessment done, she relaxed a fraction. He gestured to the chairs behind them and she took her seat. The chairs were strategically placed more for the bankers viewing of patrons rather than the patron's view of the bank as they waited. As much as she wanted to lean towards Red as an act of comfort and familiarity, she stayed aloof and to the opposite side of the wingback chair.

"Mrs. Sterling?" a man asked a few meters away.

They shared a look before she turned. He watched the moment, fascinated by the minute changes she made to get herself into the 'thieving mind set.' It was simple by her standards but the change from average tourist to criminal was highly interesting to him. He wondered if this was why she got into profiling; the interest in why and how the little changes occurred.

"If you'd be so kind, madam," the banker asked as he gestured to the hallway in which he came from.

Liz nodded and looked back at Red. His piercing look said everything he wasn't able to show but told her as they walked from Conditorei Schober to Credit Suisse AG. She focused on what the banker was asking of her: he'd need her passport and her bank account information and then she'd be taken back to access her box if everything was verified. She just hoped this worked all according to plan.

* * *

The banker left the key in his part of the keyhole. It would be easy to slip it out and use his for Red's box but she noticed the pattern of the zip string would be hard to replicate and she had no doubt a banker of his caliber wouldn't fail to notice if the string and key were out of place. She'd finish her box after taking his paperwork, she thought as she scanned the box numbers for his own. Well, the one he told her to use. She had no doubt he had more than one here. Digging through the large bag she'd set on the counter next to her pulled safety deposit box, she found the copy of the master key he had placed in an envelope. Fitting the copy into the first keyhole, she heard the lock disengage and pulled at the box. They were surprisingly heavy in comparison to what they looked like. She hefted the weight onto the counter next to her bag. Rooting through the bag, she found the envelope with the two keys inside: his marked with a red dot, hers with a purple. Extracting his key, she quickly worked on the lock and breathed a sigh of relief when the box gave the familiar crack as the inside lock disengaged and she opened the lid to reveal the contents. There were stacks of cash underneath the manila envelope. There were various denominations in various forms of currency. There was a small box but she dared not to look inside. She was to complete this task of taking the envelope and that was it. Perhaps one day he'd tell her what was in the small box. For now, she'd just have to quietly mull it over. She lay the envelope next to her bag and quickly moved to engage the lock, slip the box back into its slot and make sure everything was as it was before moving onto her own box.

Instead of the rush she felt with Red's, as she opened hers, time seemed to slow. She picked over the contents carefully and noticed there was the same stack of currency in her box. Curious as to what the passport laying innocently inside, she scooped it up and flipped to the second page that held the personal information. She traced the name with her fingers and gave a brief, small smile before sighing. She frowned as the date expired seven years from now. Which meant the box has either been recently opened or someone had access to these boxes previous to her being here. She assumed it was Luli since she had handled all of Red's finances before. But she'd have to casually bring it up, perhaps one day. Putting the passport back into its corner, she took the two envelopes addressed to her, like he said she should do if she wanted, and stuffed everything in her bag. She locked up her box and withdrew her key, making sure all three were in the envelopes before pressing the button to alert the banker she was finished.

She laughed internally at the quick response as the banker stuck his key into the lock and unlocked the private area to allow himself access again.

"Everything to your liking?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Thank you."

The man nodded and she showed him that her box was indeed locked and she didn't turn as she heard him arranging the box back into its location. She heard the jingle of his keys as he hooked the master back onto his chain and she smiled at the familiar sound. Not so much the keys but the little reminder of the jingle Hudson's collar made as he walked. The dog was too quiet sometimes and Red declared he'd step on the poor thing if he kept following him so quietly and so the collar with two tags attached was bought and although the dog protested it at first, he grew used to it. The banker cleared his throat as she lost herself in the amusing memory and she mentally shook herself out of it.

The walk down the narrow hall was made in silence and she heard the depressing of the door's alarm as they neared it. He held the door open for her and she walked with him to get her passport back from his box at his desk.

"Thank you for your business," he told her as he gave her the little book back.

She nodded.

"Thank you," she parroted as she carefully stuffed the passport into the bag hanging off her shoulder.

Red was already waiting with her fedora and coat hanging on one of his arms as she stepped back into the lobby. He was the helpful type of husband; at least she thought that's what he was trying to show, as he helped her into her coat. She had to remember to maintain the stony look instead of her usual thankful and sheepish grin she gave him when he helped her into and out of her outerwear. As soon as her coat was on and her bag on her shoulder, she took the fedora out of his hands and stepped ahead of him. He followed behind, almost meekly, still in character. This role reversal was really quite strange and empowering at the same time. When they cleared the two doors and the security guards, both finally put their fedoras on and quietly rounded the corner. She paused to have him catch up and was finally able to drop the otherwise successful role. A hand at the small of her back alerted her that he had caught up. She turned to face him and speak her tale but he opened his mouth before she could speak.

"There's a new camera," he noted as he brought her into the shadows of the building.

She looked down at herself self-consciously. She was beginning to start the phase where she couldn't hide the fact she was pregnant anymore, especially to onlookers with cameras. The bump was defined now but mostly hidden beneath her coat. So, she had kept it undone and strategically placed the bag she placed on her shoulder against her side.

"Ressler?" she asked as he nodded that she was all set.

He shook his head and he adjusted his fedora as she looked in the general area where his gaze had been moments ago.

"He wouldn't endanger you," Red said quickly. "Me, alone? Perhaps. But never you."

"What now?" she asked.

He thought on it for a moment, hashing out the complexities for them since Dembe couldn't be their get away driver this time around.

"We'll take the metro," he said as he pointed with his chin a few blocks away. "We'll easily lose them in the vast number of people. But we'll stay the night just in case. They still have yet to catch our new tail number and I'd rather not have them find out just yet."

* * *

They had a one-day break from Zurich before the madness began once again. When they had arrived back at the villa, Dembe looked thoroughly interested in the fact she was still wearing the two bands on her finger. But he refrained from asking or commenting after he noticed Red had subtly shaken his head. She had hugged the man she hadn't been with for the past two days, kissing his cheek as she realized the smell in the oven was a homemade cheese pizza. Although not as good as Joe's—which could never really be caught in delicious cheesy goodness—it was a good second place. Red had sworn his bodyguard even blushed at the experience of being kissed, albeit on the cheek, by Lizzie.

He took Hudson on his brief morning walk to wake both himself and the dog. He itched for coffee or a caffeinated tea but refrained, knowing she'd have to go without food and drink until they finished this next appointment. He really did hate to wake her this early with the little sleep she had gotten the night before but the doctor recommended an early morning appointment and he wasn't going to go against the woman's suggestions. He wanted to give her enough time to wake up but enough time to sleep so he went through his morning routine of showering, shaving, and dressing all before she needed to wake.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he assumed where her hip was, he pulled the blankets from her face. He still wondered how the hell she was still breathing every morning when he woke and found her literally burrowed into the blankets with only her hair giving away the location of her head.

"Lizzie," he says softly. He brushes a hand against her shoulder as he exposes more of her sleeping form to the cool air. His hand moves from cotton shirt to skin and her skin warmed from sleeping in a mountain of blankets almost makes him yearn to forget about the appointment and spend the day in bed catching up on the sleep they have both been missing out on.

He hears her hum or groan, they sound the same when she's turned away from him and he leans over to see if she has opened her eyes.

"Lizzie," he tries again a little louder. Rubbing his hand up and down her arm along with her name does the trick. He hears her mouth open to yawn and she smacks her lips as tries to produce some sort of response to the early morning wake up call. She turns slowly to face him and he gives her a soft smile as she frowns at him. She has pillow face, or perhaps blanket face, on one of her cheeks and the static cling makes her hair stand on end. Although not as short as it was when she cut it, the wispy, new growth was short enough to stand on end. Her hair was almost chin length now, a straight long bob he still enjoyed immensely. When he had mentioned her hair was growing one day, she told him that she read that her hair was supposed to grow in fast, shiny, and healthy. He had chuckled and once again cheekily asked if he should grow out his, too.

"Early," she sighed. Her blue eyes opened and she blinked sleepily up at him. He had yet to pull the curtains back so the early morning light from the sunrise was being filtered through the gauzy curtains.

"Glucose test," he pointed out.

She sighed through her nose and he held in the chuckle. She knew what that meant: more blood being drawn. When there were downsides to this whole pregnancy thing, it really showed in the blood work department. Honestly, she'd rather have her morning sickness again than more blood work.

"Time?" she asked.

"5:45," he said as he shook his wrist a little to see the watch he wore.

She mumbled something he swore was _fuck_  but couldn't be sure. To try and help the situation, he did the only thing he could: lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. One of her arms escaped the tangle of blankets and wove around his shoulders. When he felt it wrap around his neck, he pulled back slowly, bringing her with him as they both sat up with her more leaning into him than actually sitting up on her own.

"She's not even up yet," she told him as she looked down at her belly. It sat half exposed from the blankets. It was still the size of an over inflated half soccer ball was taped on her waist. But he clearly wasn't going to mention that metaphor to her.

"You have twenty minutes to get ready," he told her.

"Can we at least get bagels on the way back?" she asked.

He nodded and she released the light hold she had on him. She walked sedately to the washroom and he watched her go until she shut the door. Trying to busy himself until she was finished, he made the bed and then went to feed Hudson. Hopefully the dog would be okay alone until Dembe woke.

* * *

They arrived just as the receptionist did and let the man open up the building before they stepped out of the car. He hurried around to her side of the car and helped her out and she took his proffered arm.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she pointed out the fact the appointment would be a few hours long due to the time between each blood draw.

He only gave her a look as if he had anywhere else to be. He had a messenger bag with him and she looked at him strangely as he leaned down and opened the bag, pushing it with his feet towards her. Before she could examine the titles, they were brought back behind the clinic doors and ushered into a room.

She quickly changed her mind and was grateful he stayed as the doctor entered with tray in hand. She tried not to stare but the vials and rubber hose begged for her attention. She remembered greeting the doctor but blocked out the rest, knowing Red was watching her carefully and was listening to the doctor in order to translate.

She breathed in deep and closed her eyes, listening to Red's translation of the doctor's orders. When he asked if she was ready, she opened her eyes to look at him and found a sympathetic look on his face. She could already feel the color drain from her as the doctor wrapped the band just above her elbow.

"Lizzie," he whispered.

"Just do it," she said quietly.

She felt the prick and whimpered unconsciously. She turned her head so she couldn't see the procedure and was thankful he sort of stepped into the space between her legs to half block her but still keep away from the doctor.

A moment later the doctor announced she was done and the cotton ball with a band of pre-wrap was already in the crook of her arm as Red stepped back.

* * *

She places her hand on her belly and groans. She's almost halfway done with the sweet, sugary mixture of glucose required for the next series of tests. She breathes in deep and he frowns.

"What does it taste like?" he asks as she sips the glucose mixture.

"Like orange flavored simple syrup on steroids," she said as she swirled the container of orange. It was that or grape. And grape always gave her nightmares of the awful cough syrup Sam bought when she was sick and she'd rather have the orange aftertaste. She was grateful there was no cherry option. Just the thought of cherry made her want to throw up.

He hummed and couldn't help but continue to watch her drink it. She had a minute left to drink the rest and he told her as much.

She tipped her chin back and he could hear the glug as she finished the last few ounces. She handed him the empty container without looking at him and he heard her open her mouth to breath in quietly.

"Lizzie," he asked half concerned.

"I just need a minute," she whispered.

The little plastic jug crunched in his grip as he unconsciously tightened his grip on it. Her hand moved to cover his and she tipped her head to look over at him.

"Its just a lot of sugar on an empty stomach," she notes.

He's quiet for a minute and she sits back up and attempts to smile up at him. The smile fell short but it reassured him nonetheless. They had an hour until the test was due to be drawn.

"We can sit in here or outside," he notes.

She figures he must have asked the doctor when she was concentrating on not looking at the vials.

"Outside?" she asked in a small voice.

He chuckled and gathered his bag of books from the ground and held out a hand for her to take.

The morning sun was still working its way towards warming the sleepy little seaside town. He sat her on a bench that overlooked the town as well as the sea beside it and he watched as she closed her eyes and soaked up the sun. Although warming up, it was still chilly and he motioned for her to lean forward, draping his coat over her shoulders before sitting down.

"Do you have a preference?" he asked.

She hummed and shook her head. She watched him pick a thinner book and waited for him to show her the title. She laughed and she noticed his raised brows.

"I haven't read that since ninth grade language arts class," she told him.

"At least you've read it," he noted.

She nodded and leaned against his shoulder as he opened the book. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the early morning sun mixing with the tang of salt in the air from the sea below. She was following the doctor's orders to be relaxed and sit quietly as she waited for the hour to pass. For now, she listened to the sound of his voice.

"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish," Red began.

* * *

She was woozy. Her hand went to her stomach as she quietly breathed in and out against him. The rumble of his voice as he spoke with the doctor was the single thing she focused on. The first hour's test had been finished with a minor hiccup of finding a vein and she had just completed the second and last hour with the same success. Apparently, her body didn't like three blood draws any more than her mind. She had been thankful he was there, standing mostly between her and the doctor as she drew the blood.

"You need water?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head. She was mostly just hungry.

"Let's stay for a minute," he told her as she tried to stand from the patient bed/chair.

"I'm fine," she told him.

He sighed internally and knew fighting her on this was pointless. So, he quickly stood and took her arm. She swayed and blinked a few times, orienting herself. He called her name in a half-warning, half-worried state but she brushed it off with a flick of her wrist.

They made it through the door of the little room and down the hallway and past the clinic door. He was thankful there were still no patients in the waiting room because she was leaning quite heavily on him and knew it was a matter of time before she passed out. He directed her over towards the chairs and shook his head as he watched her sit without really noticing she was sitting. The last thing she remembers is his cool hand on her clammy face.

He was crouching in front of her. She could feel it as his hands were on her shin and knee and her mind instantly went back to the Stewmaker. She made a strangled gasp and attempted to leave the chair until he shushed her and placed his hands atop hers. When she looked down, a washcloth dropped from her forehead and she furrowed her brow.

"You passed out," he told her. "The final draw did you in."

"Oh, god," she whispered.

"The doctor thinks its okay," he said. "If the levels are off, then you'll have to re-do the test but she thinks it will be useable."

"I…" she started. "I don't remember."

There was a little tic. A brief flicker of it in his cheek as he chuckled low and even.

"It was spectacular, actually," he informed her. "You made it off the table and even into the waiting room. I asked if you felt fine to leave and you said you just needed air. I told you to sit for a moment. You sat and leaned forward and then slumped against the chair back. You were like this limp noodle thing. The nurse got the doctor and we wheeled you back here and she hooked the baby up to the monitor just in case."

Liz looked to the side and noticed there was what she assumed was real time video of what was currently happening in her uterus. She looked down at her stomach and noticed the giant belt-like thing that went around her middle. She assumed it was hooked up to the other machine currently extending its mechanical arm in a graph-like format.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. He knows that should have been the first thing he said to her but her worried frown had him worried and he needed to soothe them both before she could start to process what happened.

Her nose scrunches up briefly and he smiles briefly. He knows the feeling all too well after being stuck in hospital rooms he really doesn't intend to stay more than five minutes in, on a day where his luck seems to be running low and he gets hurt enough to need a professional.

"She seems to be doing the best," he noted as he looked at the screen and watched the image of their daughter appear and reappear. "We've been playing hide and seek as we wait for you to wake up."

Before she could ask how long that had been, he answered.

"You've only been out for three minutes."

She sighs heavily and brings her hand to her forehead and feels the clammy skin. Clammy from the cool washcloth and her overheated skin.

"She said to drink this when you were up," he says as he stands and goes to the counter. She hears a pop and he has a tiny can of apple juice in his hands.

She hasn't had apple juice since she was a kid. She preferred cranberry-raspberry to anything these days but even that juice was few and far between. She fails to hide a laugh as the sugary liquid revives her alertness. It's crisper than the liquid glucose she had to drink before the blood draws but its still too sweet.

"I'll let the doctor know you're up," he says as he watches her carefully.

"I'm fine," she says as she can see the worry on his face.

He disappears and she watches the screen. She moves her hand between the monitors and wires and presses against her growing belly and she watches the screen as a little hand reaches for the spot. Her eyes water and she sighs at the contact she can't really feel but she can see clearly.

The doctor takes off the fetal heart monitor, clearing her belly of most of the wiring and Red takes the opportunity. The baby's been playing with him. She feels it and all the books say he's supposed to be able to feel it at this point as well but she's evaded him. She takes after her mother that way. Or at least how her mother felt in the early days of their Concierge of Crime/FBI partnership. His hand automatically zones in and he can hear her brief laugh as he splays his palm over her bump. She watches him watch the monitor, biting her lip, hoping there is no way for rejection to play out.

His mouth opens and closes and she thinks he mouthed 'hi' as he watched the baby tumble and just as she did with Liz, reach a tiny hand out to the place where there was pressure from his hand encroaching on her valuable space within the sac. He laughs. He laughs and looks up at her. He gives her that half crooked smile; the tic in his cheek appears and he cants his head. His laugh and smile is contagious and she can't help but join him briefly. Her hand makes its way to cover his and he sighs happily as he crouches in front of her.

"You still want the bagels?" he asks as he stands. He winces a bit as his knee joint pops, relieving the pressure.

He plans on plying her with a lot more nutritious things but as long as she starts with something, he'll take it.

"Please," she nods.

"Finish your juice and we can go," he tells her.

"Yes, dad," she laughs as he gives her a look and she tips the can and drains the rest of the juice.

He leans towards her and places his lips against her forehead. His lips are warm and she closes her eyes at the contact, quietly sighing. She still feels clammy and can see the visible change of her skin color to match the clammy feeling. But none of that seems to matter to him as he extends the contact for more than a brief second.

There are these moments with him where she thinks that the limit of ability to love something about someone has been reached. But he keeps her guessing and slips out of the boxes of 'standard' and 'ordinary' that she unconsciously places their relationship in. As he unfurls the little wrap he made with her shirt in order to hook her up to the monitors and his hands brush against her transforming belly, she thinks she'll be able to finally say those three little words to him soon and not fear the grand rejection she's thought about in her nightmares.


	10. Chapter 10

She really notices how the travel affects him when they are back at their home base, so to speak, and they have no real plans to do anything or go anywhere. She wonders if the idleness affects him. It affected her, back when she wasn't growing another human. She always needed a puzzle or a constant sort of activity. These days, her constant activity seems to be napping because she hardly gets the time when they're in bed at a normal nighttime hour. He always seems to catch her napping somewhere through the house or more often than not, outside because the spring weather is heaven. He never really sleeps through the night. She's always been well aware of this fact but its still strange to think he sleeps so normally in the afternoons but becomes somewhat of an insomniac when night falls. He has his little quirks: the chessboard, the crossword puzzles, the three-piece suits and ties. However, nothing is more endearing than watching him as he lives in his own little world, for even a moment in the early morning hour where the light is pale and tries so hard to make it passed the curtains. She doesn't know why he often has these little moments occur when she sleeps but he does. Its as if there is something about the exchange that makes it a secret. A bond, perhaps, that she doesn't share in at the moment. Sometimes, she pretends to sleep. She thinks he knows or perhaps he's so into his own world that he doesn't seem to notice or pick up on it. Either way, her heart kind of swells in a way that it hadn't in a long, long time.

She can hear faint whispers of stories he tells aloud. When she first wakes and is trying to orient herself to her surroundings, his voice is strange in the quiet of the room. But then a twist and a flutter low in her belly reminds her that the baby likes the sound of his voice. The deep, raspy rumble in his voice calms and excites them both as he continues on about everything and nothing, from the mundane to stories about how incompetent the FBI is at finding criminals. She thinks he saves the latter for when he knows she's on the cusp of waking.

This morning is no different. She's curled on her side and she thinks the only thing that really keeps him in the blankets is the fact she has her legs entwined with his. She doesn't know what time it is but she can feel the sun low on her back that suggests its still early enough in the morning that she hasn't skipped out on a whole day. She can feel his chin brush the top of her head and knows she must have spent the night curled into his warmth. His hands are high on her belly and shift sideways and then up but she notices he doesn't seem to catch the pattern the baby has set low and precise. Or perhaps he was simply in his own world and was simply feeling his way around her belly unconsciously. Without opening her eyes, she takes his hand in hers and shifts his hand to the other side where his hand is now squished between her belly and the mattress and she doesn't know if it's up or down but the fluttering was stronger and that's really all he wants, to be able to feel what she does. She hears the hum as his voice pauses and know he's failed yet again to feel the flutterings she can. She shifts her hands away from his own and he curls his fingers under her shirt so his fingers touch her soft skin at her belly and she can't help but laugh as he drags them in various directions. He continues his tale of the one time Dembe got him to try and awful delicacy from his home village. She thinks its simply for her benefit when he mentions aloud it would be a good idea for 'mommy to also try the delicacy.' She chuckles as she turns her head into her pillow and thinks that's probably an awful idea. The movements in her belly seem to slow and she hopes that means she's worn herself out or something to that effect. He finishes his story and finally looks down at her in the space she's created in their little nest of blankets in the bed. She opened her eyes sometime between the tale and his stopping point and gives him a tired smirk and he moves down to her eye level. His hands slowly leave her belly for her cheek and she hums as his familiar warmth envelops her through the simple touch. He touches her forehead with his lips and pulls back to feel her shift closer and move an arm around his waist.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning," she parrots.

She hums as his scratchy morning scruff and his cool lips meet her warmed neck. The various sensations send a brief shiver down her spine and she tilts her head slightly to allow him better access.

Her voice is raspy with sleep and his is dry from overuse.

"How long have you been up?" She asks.

"Almost two hours," he says with a sigh.

She can feel the sigh against her skin and she brings her hand that was at his waist to the back of his head. She strokes the closely cropped hair there and her nails hit a particularly sensitive spot because he hums quietly against her skin. They lay quietly, enjoying the relative silence and she thinks the longer she plays the pattern against his skin, the more relaxed he will get and perhaps take a mid-morning nap to counter his bouts of insomnia.

"How long did you sleep?" She wondered.

He hums against her skin instead of answering and she's getting sleepy despite just waking up. She's hit the stage where she's tired all the time and relishes the days they get to spend the day in bed or make their way outside to sit beside the pool.

"Red," she whispers.

He doesn't speak.

"Raymond," she tries again and moves her head to avoid his morning scruff as he brings his head down to rest on her pillow.

"Lizzie?" He responds.

"How long did you sleep?" She tries again.

He huffs against her skin and sighs aloud for her to hear how much the question is essentially meaningless since they both know how little sleep he gets.

"Almost three hours," he relents.

"Any plans?" She asks. If he won't sleep at night, perhaps he'll take up naps when she does; which is more than his siesta a few hours from now.

"Not a one," he tells her.

"Good," she sighs as she continues her pattern of moving her fingers through his cropped hair. "Because you need to rest."

He chuckles against her skin. His breath warms her skin as it ghosts over her when he adjusts his head on the pillow.

She feels as he attempts to get as close as he can. It's hard with the swell of her belly but he prefers when he can see her face and tucks himself around her new curves. It's the tactile being in him that relishes any and all contact between them. But she thinks he especially likes the mornings when the sun rises and warms them as it filters through the curtains.

And it's only a matter of time until he feels content enough for her to watch over them as he finally closes his eyes and give up his self-appointed guard duty.

* * *

It wasn't her fault that he wouldn't let her out of his sight for very long. Of course he left her with Ressler in DC but that was because he trusted Ressler to take care of her. The last time he let his family out of his sight, they disappeared with only a trail of blood left behind. So, when he goes out with Dembe, he's never very far or very long in the trip. But lately they've been leaving for longer periods of time. She notices the strange look in his eye when he returns and the resignation on his face and she wonders what is bringing this on. But she's letting him come to her, rather than prying it out of him with pestering because they're already teetering on an abyss and she thinks a push either way can ruin whatever it is they have.

She found the hammock to be her favorite place as long as there isn't too much swinging and swaying. It's on the far side of the property near their bedroom's hidden little patio and shaded by large trees. It's a perfect place to nap when the bed doesn't look too appealing or she wants to sit outside but not in the sun because she often falls asleep with the mix of fresh air and warmth surrounding her. She can taste the ocean from here. The tang of the salt and the slight warmth as the sun mixes with the water. Its slightly different than the Atlantic she's used to. Where New York and DC were rather chilly, Portugal's Atlantic ocean border is warm yet refreshing. It's only slightly humid and she thinks the little humidity sort of brings out a nice glow on her otherwise pale skin. She'd like to take a dip in the ocean, feel the salty water on her skin. Its warm outside but still not warm enough temperature wise for a dip in the little private cove. Of course, the Atlantic is still a bit chillier than the warm setting on the shower. She's only dipped her feet in it when she, Red, and Hudson get out after dinner for a stroll on the beach to wear Hudson out a little. She thinks she can get used to the warmth and the sunshine and the slight ocean breeze because of the sunshine that seems to be more year-round than she ever had in DC and New York City. One foot stabilized her as she planted it in the grass beneath the hammock. She has a fedora half covering her face as she napped in the sunshine that moved through the trees. Hudson was underneath the hammock, sleeping in her shadow. A shadow crossed over her little sunlight and she lifted the fedora slightly to see him tilting his head and looking down at her.

"Good nap?" He asked.

She hummed her yes.

"It's lunchtime," he says and pulls a bag from his back.

"What's that?" She asks as she moves her other leg over the edge of the hammock and sat up as if she was in a chair.

"Lunch," he says and handed her the bag.

She opened it and looked up at him and then back to inside the bag.

"How did you know?" She asked in a whispered surprise.

"You forgot to clear the history on the iPad. Dembe asked if I wanted bagels again. I rarely use the device so I assumed you were looking for the closest shop without having to go in town."

She looked down sheepishly and she sighed. She picked the first bagel out of the bag and noticed the dough was still warm. She bit into it and smiled with joy as the tangy, pillowy dough touched her tongue. It had been two weeks since her last bagel, since that god awful test, and she was craving them again. It was ridiculous how scarce bagels were here. She briefly wishes they were in New York so she could get her pizza and bagel fill.

When she was half done she looked up at him, she noticed he was shifting slightly. She motioned for him to sit and he carefully sat beside her. He took the bag of bagels from her lap and she leaned back into the hammocks back with the rest of her bagel. She eyes him and waits until she can't wait any longer.

"What?" She asked.

"Hmm?" He turns his head and watches as she watches him.

"You wants something?" She asks but she thinks her tone suggests it's less of a question and more of a statement.

"Perhaps I wanted to spend some time with you," he suggests.

"You don't need to bring me bagels to do that," she tells him.

They stare at each other for some time and she finally relents and finishes her bagel as she still waits him out. They really have nothing but time here.

She watches his jaw clench and his fingers tap against his linen pants for longer than she thought.

"Dembe and I must take care of a problem in the town near his village," he said.

She thinks she should have expected it. She didn't suspect he was up to his old ways just yet—he promised her he'd keep a low profile—but she still gets an uneasy feeling about this. She takes a moment to recall where Dembe had mentioned where he lived. She racked her brain and it finally clicks.

"You're going to South Sudan?" She asked.

He nodded.

"Can I come?" She wondered.

He sighed. His hand traced over the swell underneath her tank top. He couldn't feel anything on the outside but she shook her head as he looked at her with the question lingering in his eyes. She was sleeping or staying quiet, neither was sure. But her hand stayed covering his own and waited for the baby to wake. Or perhaps he just found comfort like this.

"If you were to join us, you should know some things," he said finally.

"Like?" She wondered.

"Dembe's village, although becoming more modern in thinking, is still quite set in their ways."

"And?"

"First, it's a war torn village; second, it may be quite uncomfortable in journey and sleeping quarters. They have houses but they are like nothing you can imagine; third, it does have the potential for mosquitos at this time of year; and lastly, having a child out of wedlock goes against everything they stand for."

"Oh."

His fingers trace a pattern and he looks to her.

"It's not that I don't want you there, it's just…"

"It's dangerous," she tries to conclude.

"If you do not go this time around, we can go when she is older. The village would very much like to meet the woman who put an end to their nightmares."

She gives a slight but sad smile and nods in understanding. She doesn't miss his frown.

"The cameras are most likely still there," he says as an after thought. "I'd have to contact Agent Ressler, or even Agent Malik to see since they are the CIA's pesky little cameras all over the village."

He knows Fitch has some to but Fitch has no use for intel on him.

"They still have the cameras?" She asks with her brows raising in skepticism and question.

"Yes," he nods. "Dembe and I have been associates for quite some time and the letter agencies know we visit his village when he is feeling particularly homesick or we have to take care of a problem, like now."

She nods and sighs but the sound isn't quite as reassuring as she hoped it would be.

He tips her chin and tries to give her a smile but it falls a little flat.

"I wouldn't go if it wasn't necessary," he tells her.

"I know," she relents. She closes her eyes as he leans back against the hammock and she slowly moves against him, mindful of the hammock and its sway. Her head finds his shoulder and she repeats her words. "I know."

* * *

The record plays low and quietly in the room as he packs and changes into a suit. It reminds her of her music box and she briefly wonders where Red stores the restoration project he had given to her. After the Tom incident, she had left the music box to his care. She thinks it might be in the Hempstead house but she's not sure. The only rooms they really visited on the visit was two of them and she hardly thought about looking for the music box in the master bedroom that night. She thinks about asking him but she can see that he's wrapped up in whatever he's thinking about and leaves it be. She trusts him to take care of her things. The soft sounds wake the baby or at least she becomes active at the sound if she wasn't sleeping. He's slipping on his creme colored suit she's only seen him wear a handful of times as she sits back against the headboard of their bed. Briefly, she wonders if his cream-colored suit will dirty. She's seen pictures the drones and cameras took of Dembe in his village and know there's more arid land than paved roads and she knows that Red knows this yet puts the suit on anyways. She watches his routine as she passes a hand over her expanding waistline. It's not that she doesn't want him to go, she understands. It's just she's been having this lingering sense of dread and she isn't sure if it's Dembe and Red or Meera and Donald she has to worry about. The latter are getting closer to the key pieces she's already put together and thinks they need to be careful. She's warned Donald once and hopes he takes her advise to heart. Her fingers trail from the start of her bump to her steadily-growing-into-an-outie belly button with a feather-light touch and she smiles to herself as a limb follows her movement. Her stomach-logically she knows its not her actual stomach but she thinks its easier to say stomach than uterus, even in her mind-flutters with movement. Its quick, like Thumper stomping his foot on the ground waiting for Bambi. And she lets out a noisy breath as a turning limb hits her bladder.

"Lizzie?" he asks. He pauses in his routine and fully turns to face her.

"Bladder hit," she waves him off. "She was a little too close for comfort."

He pauses a minute more before turning back to selecting a tie from his wardrobe.

She wishes he could feel the movement but so far it's only been silent on the surface with a maelstrom underneath. He's seen her kick on the screen and she trails his hands along her belly when the baby is active but so far he's gotten nothing.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" She wonders.

He's tying the mahogany-colored tie in the mirror, although she thinks his hands have done the movement so often that he doesn't need a mirror, but he catches her eye and then looks back to the tie.

"Hopefully not more than a week," he informs her. "I typically roam the village and let Dembe spend time with his family since he doesn't see them often."

She wants to say something but it gets stuck between the lump in her throat and chalks it up to nerves. Although she tries to hide it, he catches her look.

He finishes his tie and moves quietly back to the bed she sits on.

"I'm coming with you," she whispers.

He frowns and her chin dips so she doesn't have to look at him while she relates the story.

"When you were asleep last night, I packed a bag," she tells him. She can imagine the confusion in his eyes. She was quiet though, after her having to pee three times in the night and one of them was just the sensation of having to go. She really hated this whole about to be in the third trimester thing. "Dembe's taking Hudson to one of the dog sitting places in town. He should be back any minute."

"Why?" He asks.

She swallows and plays with her fingers that sit in her lap.

"Because you'll need me," she says honestly. She finally looks up and sees the truth ring in the dark look he gives her. "And I've been having this nightmare and I don't know what it means but I don't want to be alone."

"Lizzie," he tries. Its a word, her name, and typically with the tone she'd back down but she can't. Because she needs him to keep the shadowy nightmare she's been having away and he needs her to be there whether he thinks its a good idea or not.

"I'm coming with you," she whispers. "I have insect repellent and you can just say that you don't wear a ring. I have mine on my necklace. Our baby problem is solved."

"And the sleeping situation?" He wonders.

"It's not like you and I sleep all that well at night anyway," she tells him.

"You will stay in the village when we go into town," he relents after a few moments of silence between them where they stared each other down, each stuck in their ways.

"Fine," she nods in agreement.

He looks at the clock beside her and notes they still have some time until the plane is ready for the long flight.

"Where's your bag?" He asks.

"Dembe already put it in the trunk," she says with a slight smile.

"The two of you conspiring against my wishes needs to stop," he says half jokingly and half serious.

"Perhaps when you stop hiding things from me," she notes.

He watches as she turns to lay down instead of sitting and he stews over her words quietly. As he moves away from the bed and zips up his suitcase, she gets a smile in the corner of her lips and rubs her hands over her belly in silent victory.

* * *

_Bogora, Central Equatoria, South Sudan_

The sun is high in the sky the next morning and she thinks she would have liked to see where Dembe lived, the journey there, but she understands why they had to leave at the time they did and arrive at nightfall. Whoever they were tracking, for whatever reason, was not expecting Red and Dembe, she thinks. She's wrapped in a thin sheet on a single pad of mattress and her back aches. She's not sure if its because of the baby or the bed but she sighs into her pillow anyway. Its a little stifling in the room and she moves her hand over to the other side of the bed and feels the spot she assumed Red slept on and finds it cooler to the touch. She wonders how long she slept and how long he's been up. Her stomach grumbles and she places a hand on her stomach as she slowly sits up. Before she goes and wanders aimlessly looking for Red or Dembe, the latter peeks his head into the room as he pulls the curtain aside.

"Good morning, Liz," he whispers.

"Morning, Dembe," she says sleepily.

"Raymond is distributing breakfast," he notes as she opens her mouth to speak again.

"Bathroom?" She asks.

He points to the darker curtained off area and she nods, slowly making her way there. He waits on his side of the curtained off room until she pulls it aside and looks a little more awake.

He leads her through the small house and they find themselves outside and she thinks its a backyard, or would be one if they had fences or something. Each of the houses are the same as she looks down the dusty street. She fully admits to having a vision that they all still lived in huts or something but it looks like the village is more like a small, rural town. She observes the area closer, noting the various animals in the shade of the large tree a few meters away that is the only place that seems to have a fence around. She listens to Red speak in an unfamiliar language and her brow raises as she looks to Dembe.

"He speaks…" she trails off.

"Arabic," Dembe nods. "Raymond speaks many languages. Of those in South Sudan he speaks Arabic, Central Sudanic Baka, Bari, Kakwa, and he's still learning Mundari. You need a well rounded language here because most aren't native English speakers. Raymond took that as learning all the languages at all the major stops."

Liz hums and crosses her arms over her belly as she watches the man unfold even more with the information.

"My village mostly speaks in Mundari," Dembe tells her. "Though as a way to speak with Raymond, they have also learned both Arabic and some English. In turn, he's learning our language. He makes sure the library is well funded and English books are brought in to help them learn."

"Do you think you could teach me?" She asks.

Dembe gets a little smile in the corner of his lips and it widens as he notices her genuine interest.

"Of course," he nods respectfully.

"Good," she nods and turns from him to watch Red. "Now, come on, I'm starving."

He shakes his head and leads her out the door to where Red and most of the women of his large family gather.

* * *

Red and Dembe left her alone with Dembe's family. It wasn't that she was nervous for herself but more apprehensive about what exactly the other two were doing. She didn't want to know but she had some ideas. She wasn't sure what the outcome would be, only that her presence would probably be sought after the fact. Dembe's eldest sister eyes her warily but she was seemingly good with Dembe's nieces and nephews so she had to score some points in the woman's book. The eldest of the girls acted as her translator since she spoke the most English out of all of them, having been accepted into the all girls school at the larger town miles from here now that hers was closed. They were all around her and one or two of them played at her feet as she sat in the shade on the other side of the house.

She quickly realized traditional customs shouldn't have been the only reason Red was weary of her coming. Although still early spring, it was rather hot in the mid afternoon sun and her clothes, although light, weren't really made for the arid heat. She kept shifting her hair to one shoulder or the other but her shoulder length hair often didn't cooperate. Dembe's youngest sister cornered her after her latest washroom visit—the baby playing soccer with her bladder while Dembe's nieces and nephews played soccer outside—made for frequent trips in and out of the small house.

Dembe's middle sister caught her as she walked back outside and tugged on her tunic and then Liz's clothes and used the few words of English she had been taught.

"Would you like to… borrow?" She asked with hand gestures that pointed from Liz's clothes to her own.

Liz couldn't help but nod and give the younger woman a sigh of relief as she quickly made her way down to what Liz could only assume was her room. And a few minutes later, she was back in the room she had woken up in and felt so much better in the light linen of the borrowed long tunic. Briefly, she wondered how Dembe and Red were getting along.

As she made her way outside again, her stomach grumbled and the ones closest to her giggled into their hands. She smiled and rubbed her belly, wishing the grumble wasn't so loud.

"Is the baby hungry?" One of them asked curiously.

"Maybe," Liz gave a little laugh. It was possible. She didn't really know everything about babies. They never mentioned that in the books. She just knew she was hungry.

"Come, come. We'll make lunch," Dembe's eldest sister said.

The three girls surrounding her stood up and ran into the house. She wondered how exactly she was going to get off the low-sitting log when a hand entered her vision. She looked up and noticed the eldest nephew had taken a break from his soccer game with the rest of the older kids to help her up.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The boy helped her up and steadied her with a nod of his head. He was silent, much like Dembe. She briefly wondered if he had any plans to be like his uncle. But she refrained from asking and turned to go inside the house.

When she finally found the kitchen, she noticed all the girls were lined up doing something. She stayed at the entryway, not wanting to get in the way.

"Come," a voice said from behind her, gently propelling her into the kitchen.

"I'm not a very good cook," Liz warned.

The eldest sister only raised an eyebrow. She spoke with one of her girls.

"Mama says its easy. We're making goraasa be dama," the latter translated. "It is good. Mama makes it for all the mothers."

"Is there meat?" Liz asks.

The girl nods.

"I just need to leave when the meat comes in," Liz noted as she looked over at the ice box and noticed there was meat. She was fine eating it. It was just the whole raw thing that rolled her stomach to the point she no longer had an appetite.

When the girl translated, Dembe's eldest sister got a sympathetic look in her eyes. She wonders if every pregnant woman goes through this phase.

"Come, come," the eldest of Dembe's sisters says as she waves to where she stands with a knife and various vegetables.

She can chop onions and crush garlic just fine. She sort of watches with fascination as one of the girls makes a quick tomato paste as she looks at each of the girls do one part of the recipe, at least she assumes. She puts the onions into the deep dish pot and one of the girls lead her outside. The fire is already burning in the outdoor fire pit and she puts the pot on the hanging apparatuses and the girl puts the lid on it, telling Liz to keep lid on.

"They're cutting the meat?" Liz asks.

The girl nods.

Fifteen minutes later the littlest girl comes with a cup of water and hands it to Liz. Liz follows the verbal instructions of the elder niece and stirs the pot of water and onions. Ten minutes later, when the water evaporates, each of the other girls comes out and adds the tomatoes, tomato paste, and peppers. She's feeling quite accomplished and one girl sees her mom bringing the steak out and takes the wooden spoon from Liz and talks in tongue to her little sister. The latter grabs Liz's hand and leads her to where the boys are playing soccer between the calves and their mothers and Liz winces as the ball hits a boy's back but he laughs and so does his cousin beside her so she figures it must happen frequently.

"Ama," a voice says behind her.

She turns and a plate is raised above a little head. There's a flatbread-tortilla-like  _thing_  underneath the food she had mostly cooked all by herself. She took the plate and nodded at the girl, who beamed and then ran off to get her own plate. Dembe's niece waited until Liz started walking back to where the logs sat in a circle near the house before she began to walk herself. She motioned for Liz to sit and she did, thankfully in the relative shade the house brought at the hour of the day.

"Hey," she sputtered as the girl moved to get her own plate.

"What is 'ama?" Liz asks.

"Mother," the girl says with a small smile. "It is  _kuama_. Mr. Reddington's nickname is  _aba lo kuaba_ , which means father. This is the only way the village can repay you for saving us. He does not want anything in return so we call him the father of the village. And you are the mother protector."

Liz sat for a moment, processing. She wasn't sure she would ever be called mother. Yet here she is carrying one of her own and finding an entire village calls her mother because one time Raymond Reddington turned himself in and she watched Floriana succumb to the drugs she gave her own girls, in a lethal quantity. She didn't know if that necessarily qualified her for this status but here she is, kuama to all those in Bogora. As if the baby can understand or even read her mind, she gets a swift fluttering in her belly and she has to place a hand and self-consciously talks quietly to her belly before they all return to the circle to eat lunch.

* * *

Red sat in the corner of the man's office, sitting in the plush leather chair that would have sweltered in the heat but alas the government offices had air conditioning. He sits alone in the room, looking around at the various medals and pictures of the man with various officials higher up the chain and Red chuckles. He hears the key in the lock and raises his chin so he's staring the man in the face when he turns to find the culprit who has left his no evidence but a fedora on the desk. He would laugh at the predictability of it all but this is a serious problem and he needs to deal with it.

"Samuel," Red greets him as the man turns.

Predictably, he tries to run but Dembe appears out of nowhere and blocks the only exit.

Red gets a little tic in his cheek as he stands, still holding the silenced gun in his hands and Dembe pushes the man into the room and shuts the door.

"Red," Samuel greets.

"Have a seat," Red chuckles.

Samuels was shaking like a leaf and Red knew the rumors couldn't be rumors if the man was nervous like this. As the other man tries to sit at his desk, Red tisks and waves the gun as he shakes his head.

"We both know there's a panic button under your desk," Red informs him. "Sit in one of your visitor's chairs. I'd like to have a chat."

"I didn't do anything," Samuel notes. His accent is thick as he speaks English and Red wishes the statement was true.

"In my line of work," Red begins, "I've found most, if not all, people who say those four little words are often lying."

The man finally sits and Red watches as his legs give a slight quiver and his hands turn a shade lighter as he grips the chair arms a little tighter than necessary.

"Will I have to duct tape you to the chair or are you going to cooperate?" Red asks.

"I'll cooperate," Samuels nods.

"Shall we begin?" Red asks as he sits in the chair opposite him.

Samuel looks to the floor and the room is quiet. Red watches the man's thought process and briefly thinks Lizzie should be here to look into his mind. She had quite a number of techniques of interrogating that were far more mundane than his own but he thinks she might have gotten something out of him quicker than this lasting silence.

"In April 2010, I set up a government for you. I gave you a state executive, twelve state minister positions, six state advisor positions, and each county gets a commissioner. I hand picked each and every one of you and the government has lasted and thrived. Your counterparts have applied for programs and receive four million Euros. They've established facilities, business ventures, agriculture equipment and seeds for planting. The other states have thrived, Samuel. Why is Bogora getting lost in the gap of villages Terkeka looks after?"

Samuel stayed silent.

"Samuel, I don't have all day," Red notes. "Tell me the story."

Samuel finally looks up at Red and he nods.

"The oil dried up," he begins. "They took control of the oil fields. It was our only source of revenue besides your stipend."

Red tilts his head in curious fascination.

"I raised the taxes on the village. I have a family to feed. I meant to pay it all back when we got control of the oil fields again but the governor said the army was a no-go and you found out before I could make it right."

"You thought a kickback would help," Red surmised.

"I was going to pay you back," Samuel noted.

Red briefly smiles and chuckles.

"No, you weren't," he tells him.

Samuel swallows.

Red tilts his head once more and points at Samuel with his free hand, making a circular gesture at his face.

"You looked the wrong way when you told me the lie," Red tells him. "I can tell you this because the… mother of my child, she taught me a few things about body language and subtle lying techniques people use. Your little look tells me you had no intention of giving your people back the money."

Samuel fidgets in his chair.

"I've amassed enough wealth that I don't need to be paid back," Red notes. "You stole from your own people. You raised the taxes when you know they don't have enough to buy simple fruits and vegetables when the market makes its way down the river. That is bad business."

"I'm sorry," Samuel sort of pleads.

"I'm sure you are now," Red tells him.

The shame that stole across the other man's face told him it was a fact.

"I normally don't trust government officials," Red says. "I don't even pay taxes in my own country. But I put you here because I thought this would be a good place for you. You used to fight for your people and now you steal from them."

Red stands and looms over the man.

"Security is stable in terms of South Sudanese and Sudanese armies going to war with one another. Yet, there's inner-tribal conflict with the grazing and the boundaries. I've given you ample opportunities and resources to use to create a peace resolution between the tribes yet you seem to simply take the money rather than the meetings."

Samuel and Red wage some kind of silent battle.

"Would you do it again?" Red asks.

"Yes," Samuel says. There's no reason to lie anymore. He knows he's done for now.

Red swallow hard. Its not that he doesn't want to do this, part of him knows he has to send a message, but the other part that Lizzie's brought out in him is somewhat ashamed it has to be done.

"Just… not in the face," Samuel says as he realizes these are his last moments.

Red nods. He watches as Samuel closes his eyes and resigns himself to his fate. The gun goes off with a quiet pop. A silencer doesn't silence the whole sound, merely muffles it. Its a clean shot, right in the heart and the man didn't even see it coming or feel a thing. Despite what he did, Red still admired the man. At the muffled shot, Dembe pokes his head in and when Red nods, he begins to wipe down the room. Red sits behind Samuel's desk and begins to dismantle the gun, knowing he won't have time to clean it with Lizzie and Dembe's family around. He continues to mull but shifts his thoughts over to the reasons why Samuel took to lining his pockets rather than helping the village. He had been loyal for almost a decade as the representative. He has supplied the village with funds and food for years after the civil unrest and the lack of government aid in this remote region. He hand picked Samuel with Dembe's backing and he wonders if eventually greed takes everyone. Or, if it was simply desperate times and desperate measures and all those other cliches. He shakes his head and assembles the gun again. And when that's finished, he cleans his hands with his handkerchief and watches as the gunpowder and oil rubs off from his hands to the cotton square he'll throw away.

"Dembe," he calls out quietly.

"All done," Dembe notes with a look at the place Red currently sits.

"I'll be in the vehicle," Red notes as he cleans up most of his mess.

Dembe nods and watches as his boss slash friend makes his way sedately out of the room.

* * *

He was silent for the ride. It was no surprise to Dembe but he watched out of the corner of his eye when they parked behind the house as Raymond's demeanor completely changes. He gets out of the car quickly and adjusts his tie, loosening the material so it doesn't feel like its constricting him in the heat. He gets a tic in his jaw and Dembe only notices because Red looks at him, knowing he's being watched.

"I'm fine, Dembe," Red tells him.

Neither believe his words but Dembe understands why the facade must play on.

"I smell lunch," Dembe says as they switch topics.

Red looks grateful and nods for Dembe to lead the way.

He watches her laugh with Dembe's sisters and their small children around the campfire pit they use for big meals. She had changed from her clothing he had last seen her in to one of the more traditional native outfits. She wore a bright red tunic that actually fit her skin tone. It was warmer in undertones then the dress she had worn during one of his favorite heists with his two favorite people. Although mostly shapeless, her bump was prominent as she rested one hand on her belly and one kept her from falling over as she titled her head back slightly. One of Dembe's sisters was braiding Lizzie's hair as she sat with the littlest of Dembe's nieces next to her and holding out a board book for her to look at. He noticed another little girl was looking intently at her hands and Lizzie was laughing but from his vantage point, he couldn't see what had made her laugh like that.

"My sister is very good at making someone feel welcome," Dembe notes as he stands slightly behind Red as they both take in the scene before them.

Red chuckles and shakes his head. He watched as they all turned slowly. The only response he really got from her was a small, sheepish smile and he took that as a sign she wasn't mad at being left behind.

He and Dembe slowly make their way to the camp of houses and one of the girls sitting next to Lizzie moves to get up but he shakes his head and smiles down at her as he moves to stand in front of her. They've taken an interest in Lizzie and he's glad he's not the only one that is fascinated by her. Although, he thinks they find her fascinating for different reasons.

"Do you like her ring?" Liz asks with a knowing look.

He looks carefully at the girl and notices one of Lizzie's bands he had given her was on the finger of the little girl. Of course its the diamond one. Her fingers had swollen seemingly overnight and the ruby and diamond bands now sat on a chain that went around her neck. The ruby band meant more to both of them. He wasn't sure why but he wasn't going to question it since it was still a conversation they still needed to have but never really had time to do. They had a lot of those, he thinks. He crouches low and tells her to show him and a smile threatens to appear as she sticks her middle finger up and thrusts it towards him. He can hear Lizzie chuckle and he looks briefly at her before turning back to the little girl.

"It's beautiful," he notes.

The smile on Dembe's niece's face lightens his heart a little.

The hand that was on her belly moved to his hand that had unconsciously made its way to rest on her thighs as he crouched low and she looked at him with unspoken questions in her eyes. His other hand covered hers and he patted it reassuringly. He couldn't tell her he was fine, because he wasn't, but that wasn't a conversation for all these ears.

"There's lunch," she told him as she cleared her throat and looked at him with one of her placating smiles.

"I should get some before Dembe eats it all," he noted.

"Good," she whispered.

He squeezed her fingers and leaned up and kissed the corner of her mouth.

She wanted to watch him leave but Dembe's sister was still doing her hair and she didn't want it ruined.

* * *

He avoided her without really avoiding her to the outside world. Dembe gave her a sympathetic look but it didn't really register with her. She quickly realized all those years ago when she told him the Ressler wasn't like him was true… but in a different case. No longer did she think he didn't feel anything or come out on the other end okay when he killed someone. He gets consumed and retreats into himself where Donald reaches for another person to talk to that's on the same level as him; that's experienced the same thing he has. Or, at least that's how she' profiled him after seeing him exact revenge on those who have been murdered that have mattered to him. Red won't touch her unless she initiates the contact. They sit close together, eyed by Dembe's family, and she puts her hand in his or an arm goes around his waist as they stand together but he's slow to react. He does kiss her on the temple when she leans into him, though. It's soft and has her sighing quietly as her eyes close but that's about it.

He doesn't come to bed. Or if he does, she never feels him and he's always up making breakfast before she even gets up. She had a nightmare the second night and can't remember much about it. She thinks maybe her imagination played with her when she thinks that he was there and soothing her back to sleep. Or perhaps he really did. She doesn't know because he won't talk to her. But she hasn't really tried because she's too tired of having to come to him. It's only their last night there, when the nightmare happened again when she napped this afternoon and she couldn't fall back asleep, does she finally approach him.

There was too much food to look at as Dembe's nephews escort her to the table. She was surprised her stomach handled the mokhbaza so well. She normally didn't like bananas but the banana paste tasted different, especially when combined with the durra-based kissra bread. And that was basically the appetizer. There was Jibna salata, kofta, and shorbet ads. No one judged her for dipping the spicy meatballs into the lentil soup in addition to the kissra. As long as she always used her right hand, no one thought of her strange pregnancy induced ideas about how to eat. When dinner was finished they sat and watched the children play a game of soccer with Dembe. It seemed to be all the kids versus their uncle and she had a hard time keeping the laughter from bubbling up as Dembe played like a professional. She has the littlest in her lap, well as much in her lap as the little one can get. The baby kicks against the light pressure from the littlest one leaning against her stomach and she occasionally feels the little hand move with the movement of the baby. When her mind eventually catches up to this revelation, her grin widens and she probably looks ridiculous but Red is not here and she suddenly gets the urge to go and find him. But it would be rude to dump the little girl and go find him so she waits. And perhaps she will let it be a surprise to him. The little giggle as a particularly sharp jab with what she assumes must be an elbow makes her sigh but she really wouldn't have it any other way if it meant there was finally outside movement.

She had a plate of shaaria in her hands. Dembe told her to go and find him and share the dessert Raymond always tries to sneak more of. She wonders if the man is plotting something but she ignores her thoughts and carries the plate off in the direction she last saw him disappear.

He drinks from the hollowed out coconut and she sits down on the log next to him. She gave an 'ooff' as she sat a little too heavily but he didn't look over at her.

"What the hell is that?" She asks. The smell is emanating from the cup and she feels her stomach roll.

"Araqi," he says slowly.

She looks at him but its rather moot point since he's not looking at her. But she knows he can feel her stare.

"The dates are mixed with water and yeast and left to ferment for three days. Afterwards the liquid is distilled, producing about eight liters a night."

"Dates and yeast?" She wonders with disgust marring her features. It sounds horrible. "What does it taste like?"

"Like dates," he shakes his head in a little motion like he doesn't really know how it tastes other than like a strong, home brewed alcohol.

She turns up her nose and looks to the plate before her. It tastes like heaven on a plate as the coconut and sugar and butter touch her tongue. She gets why Red likes this. It's not too overpowering yet it's lighter than their preferred chocolate desserts.

She gets back to what he's drinking though.

"Do we have an equivalent?" She asks as she pointedly looks at his coconut wielding hand.

"Basically, moonshine," he says as he coughs after a particularly long gulp. She thinks he may have finished the brew now. "Stronger than Frederick's home brew."

She sits quietly and eats the noodle dessert and watches as he reaches with it for his left hand. They're alone and no one will judge him and she certainly won't tell. She didn't even know it was a thing until he quietly pointed it out at breakfast the first morning.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" She wonders aloud.

He chews slower and she thinks maybe its because he's processing. Or at least thats what she hopes.

"What do you want to hear, Lizzie?" He asks. Perhaps a little gruffer than he had hoped. "That I came here to kill a man?"

She opened her mouth but he held up a hand.

"I did. I killed a man. Shot him right in the chest, in fact. I asked if he would do it all over again and his answer was yes."

He was silent for a moment. She was processing his sharp words.

"He took my money and lined his own pockets," he whispered after several beats of silence. "He had already shut down all of the schools and attempted to close the library. He blocked the markets and the warring tribes surround the village."

"That's why you had to come here," she concluded.

"The village asked for my help," he tells her. "Dembe and I put this man in place because we trusted him. He got greedy and paid the price."

"I understand," she says quietly.

"Do you?" He wonders.

"Children matter to you," she whispers. She doesn't look at him but feels his stare. "They are the innocent victims and need men like you to protect them."

She sighs heavily and her shoulders slump. She's tired for a million different reasons but she really does hate it when they're like this and can't seem to get on the same page. She needs them to be on the same page. Or at least in the same chapter.

"You're a good man, you know," she tells him. "I know you don't believe it and you don't have to. I see the good in you. The bad, too. But there is a good side of you, Raymond Reddington."

There's no angel inside him. Certainly he's known for years but she believes there is still good in him and tries to bring out the redeeming quality he thought was long dead and buried. The quiet sound of her breathing next to him calms him. He's noticed her breathing pattern has changed since pregnancy-she gets a little more air breathing through a slightly opened mouth-and it lulls and quells the beast of a monster inside him.

His sticky fingers close around her own and he feels her wrap her fingers around his own.

He hears her let out a quiet sigh of relief and he closes his eyes and leans slightly forward on an elbow against his thigh as he looks over at her hanging head when he opens his eyes again. He reminds himself that she's come to expect to be abandoned at an unconscious level. She's been abandoned by her real father, misguided by Tom Keen, and Sam kept things hidden from her because of him and on his own selfish behalf. Perhaps she believes there's no real ties to her-no sacred vows of marriage to promise to be there until death do us part, she has two rings but they've never talked about what they mean other than they were used for a job and one really does mean something to him-but she must realize blood is thicker than any promise signed onto a piece of paper.

"I should go," she whispers.

He wants to tell her to stay just another minute but he releases her hand and she smiles a small but genuine smile at him. She hands him the plate of dessert noodles and she thinks he'll eventually eat them. He watches her as she walks back to the house. He thinks its a success when she turns around twice and watches him watch her.

* * *

She had gone to bed alone but the warmth radiating behind her gave her a clue she certainly wasn't alone as she woke. She glanced at the watch around his wrist and noticed it was just shy of ten o'clock in the morning. At least the little fluttering kicks and somersaults the baby was doing had waited until a descent hour. She let out a breath and couldn't help but laugh in a rough, low chuckle as he suddenly shot away and up from his otherwise sleepy state. She had felt him moving his hands over her belly as she swam to the surface of consciousness. She didn't know how long he had been up but she knew it was before her. Her hand moved to cover where his had been and she suddenly remembered the reason why he had shot away. She turned and propped herself up with her hand on the swell of her belly and she crooked her head to look over at him.

"So, you can feel her?" she asked with a slight smile.

He moved back closer to her and watched her watch him. His hand hovered close but not close enough to touch her. At least, not without her permission.

"I forgot," he whispered. His voice was hoarse and sleepy. Clearly the movement had woken him from a state of half-asleep, half-awake place that they found themselves in on the last morning here in Dembe's village. "I forgot what the first time feels like."

She licks her bottom lip and reaches for the hand that hovers near her form. She moves it under the covers again and places it on her t-shirt covered belly where the movements are slow but mesmerizing to him.

"What time did you come to bed?" she asked. She feels his hands move lower and to the other side of her belly, following the baby's movements.

"Four something," he says.

She notices each time he feels the movement: his fingers tighten slightly against her shirt she wears and there's a slight smile that reaches his green eyes.

He decides to lay back down, burying himself in sheets and blankets once again and she feels him now flush against her side.

"Shouldn't we be getting ready to leave?" She whispers.

"Mmh," he hums.

She knows she's lost him to the baby's movements and closes her eyes as he rests his head against a slightly tender breast. But she doesn't mind much. She's far too content that they have this closeness for right now. Plus, she already packed up most of their items last night after she had relieved herself and didn't really want to face the others as she processed the truths she had gotten out of him. She decides five minutes won't really affect them too much in the long run with Dembe's lead foot.

She'll let father and daughter have this moment they've been painfully denied since she could feel the quickening a mere eleven weeks earlier.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was re-watching Boston Legal during the hiatus and some of Alan's quotes struck me as something Red would say. So, this fic kind of spawned from that and also Red's monologue with Ressler in 109. Just a pre-warning: this isn't going to be a top priority as I have a lot of things going on in real life (grad school, work, work, internship, making sure I have a small, small social life outside the former list) that take up a lot of my time.
> 
> This is a set up for a red/liz baby fic. but obviously you know i have to set the stage before things happen. i do have some of it written and drawn out. okay. And if you want to see anything in particular, feel free to PM or ask box me on tumblr (harrietspecter) and I'll try and fit it in. This is kind of a prompt-like fic. I have a few of my own but would welcome ideas from any and all. Especially those who don't feel up to writing themselves and want to see something ~magical~.


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